


At The Crossroads

by winterwonderland



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scenes, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwonderland/pseuds/winterwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Spartacus and Crixus have finally decided to part ways for good, Agron is faced with a decision of his own. </p>
<p>Missing scenes from episode 7 (WotD) onwards. Canon compliant. Agron-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement is intended. All rights go to their respective owners.
> 
> Contains profanity, some sex and violence, angst, and copious amounts of cheese.

He does not see it yet when he crouches down to cut the ties around Cilician’s wrist.

There are no gallant reasons behind the flick of his knife; it is only an appeasement to Nasir, an empty gesture in lieu of the words he knows his tongue will never agree to form. And furthermore, Agron holds little faith that a man so accustomed to southern winds will even survive this storm, not like this, out in the open cold. Freed hands will be of little use to help cause or cock, Agron thinks, if all of body is only to become as ice.

He does not quite see it yet when standing upon conquered wall, watching Roman backs retreat in temporary defeat and hearing fellow rebels burst into untimely celebration all around him. He does not _quite_ see it, but the picture is clearer. The ever-growing thrum of dread in his veins bringing everything a little more into focus.

Mors indecepta.

If only it were not so.

They make camp in the woods and persistent Cilician stays a stubborn shadow following at heel. And yet again, Agron is left watching the smile upon lover’s lips from a distance. But this time there is little of the old poison left upon tongue to taste, and the anger once burning him alive grows tamer, from blaze to a withering flame of a candle, only skimming the edges of old scars and holes under his skin.

And he finds himself thinking, not of what the world is yet to wrest from his arms, but of all the things already wrested from one least deserving of such fate. And he wonders out loud about happiness still owed in this fucking world. But he does not yet see _how_.

And then Spartacus lays a map out on the table with a generous sweep of hand. And Agron’s eyes trail after the man’s blade as it travels along the surface of the scroll. North and even further north still. Over mountains. Far from Rome’s deadly reach.

And he does not agree with the words, fears his feet will not follow the man, but at last he...

Outside, the night air is cool against sweaty skin and twigs snap and crunch beneath his feet as he makes his way back across crowded camp. A lone figure sits by the dying fire, and then head whips to side, smile stretches face-wide, and the vise around Agron’s chest tightens, making it harder to draw in even the shallowest of breaths.

“I feared duty would keep you from finding any rest this night.”

He leans down to briefly meet waiting lips in greeting, and now the vise is so tight it is breaking bone and he hides the pain with a smile.

“We will charge the valley come daybreak. There is yet rest to be found in between.”

“And then?”

_And then_.

“...Does Spartacus yet have further plan?”

He clasps hand on shoulder, ushers Nasir inside and out of night wind’s reach. And forces out a laugh.

“You should know by now, Spartacus always has a plan.”


	2. Heading Out To The Highway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna do it my way, take a chance before I fall.

He follows Gannicus out of the tent, but where the other man’s feet take him away, Agron’s own stay still instead. It is not that he fears for Spartacus’ safety,  _exactly_ , but nevertheless he finds it better to stay where he is for the time being. Burdened with enough shit already, they cannot afford to have their leaders losing an eye or an ear in another pissing contest.

There is a frustrated groan trapped somewhere in his throat, but he stills himself at the last moment, not wishing to draw unwanted attention, showing restraint he did not know he still possessed. Instead, he merely rubs a hand over his face absent anything better to do to try and quell the irritation itching under his skin.

So it seems clear Spartacus has lost mind after all.

Agron has seen him through an array of questionable choices already, from coddling Roman shits as if they were naught more than suckling babes to ever trusting those fucking pirates to be capable of else than thrusting knives in their backs. And now this.

Or perhaps it is Agron himself that has lost all reason, for he finds himself now in the least desirable position of all: agreeing with a Gaul.

With all the blood that has already been shed, with so many lives lost – too many of their own, yet never enough of the Roman kind – how can Spartacus now expect them to run from this war with tails between their legs like cowering dogs before a master’s lash? Have they not come too far now to turn away from a chance to face their enemies? And Rome herself?

To seek final vengeance for wounds inflicted by oppressing hand...

But before Agron has time to further dwell in these troubling thoughts, the flap of the tent behind him is suddenly drawn open again. And soon Crixus pushes past, without a word or a backward glance, continuing his way into the crowded camp spanning before them. And not long after, another pair of footsteps crosses the tent doorway, this time stopping once they reach Agron’s side.

Spartacus stands quiet for a moment as they both are left watching the Gaul’s retreating form. “Give word to break camp at first sign of light,” he says finally, eyes still somewhere in the direction Crixus has already disappeared in, “We will take the valley come daybreak.”

Agron nods his understanding yet stays his feet. “And Crixus?” he asks, although he is fairly certain the answer is already etched upon their leader’s face.

“He will be of aid tomorrow and see his men to needed rest and nourishment.”

“And then?”

Spartacus turns to him with a solemn face. There is a new layer of sadness to his eyes, a new sort of exhaustion, and Agron has to fight to keep a sigh from escaping his lips, along with a few choice curses.

“He will stay behind and strike for Rome,” the man says simply before his attention slips away again.

Agron does not have the words, yet he opens his mouth anyway, but before he has a chance to voice his thoughts, a clasp of hand on his shoulder stills his tongue.

“Set feet to task, Agron. The night grows long and I would have you find rest before its end.” 

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Castus rises to his feet and bids goodnight, flashing him one of those easy smiles of his Nasir has already grown accustomed to, as surprising as it is considering the short amount of time the two have held acquaintance. There is a barely there touch to his knee before the other man turns to go, perhaps an innocent slip of hand, perhaps not; in any case, Nasir will not make a point of speculating the man’s intentions further this night. His time is better spent setting feet and hand to more pressing task, a thing he is never short of within rebel camp.

Yet he stays in place for one moment longer and watches the Cilician’s receding back with a frown forming between brows and wonders – not for the first time – about the unexpected costs of the life of a free man. Not that he would ever be willing to give it up for anything; he has long since understood he would rather die where he stood than live another heartbeat under the heel of another. Yet with all this newfound freedom comes newfound responsibility, new obligation to face the consequences of his choices, big and small. And those are lessons he is still learning.

For most of his young life – as distant as those days may seem now – an existence defined by lack of choice was all he knew. From the most mundane to questions of life and death, every aspect of his life then was controlled by others. There was no matter so small it was not commanded from above: when to sleep, to rise, to stand, to sit, to breathe, what to speak, who to fuck…

Nasir raises a hand to his neck to try and rub the tension away. The skin is clammy with sweat even in the evening chill.

Now such decisions are his and only his to make, a thing worth more to him than any riches on this earth. And yet…

Castus’ back disappears from sight and Nasir turns his eyes back to the flames before him. A gust of wind blows between the rows of tents sending sparks from the modest fire flying up into the darkening sky. Nasir shakes his head slowly, though it is a gesture mostly for his own benefit for there is no one else there to share his ponderings.

Yes, his life as it stands now is all but absent choice that much is true; it is something those around him seem more than eager to remind him of at every turn. Yet there is one important fact the others seem to have forgotten: simply being presented with opportunity does not mean there is a choice to be made or that such a choice would be a difficult one.

Some choices are everything but.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“North?”

“To gain the mountains and beyond.”

There is a frown between Nasir’s brows that only grows deeper with every exchanged word. “But what of Crassus?” he asks, finally.

Agron shrugs, trying his best to navigate around the words he yet rather keep trapped upon his tongue as he sits heavily on their makeshift bed.

“There is a chance,” he starts, then hesitates a moment and rubs his chin, “Crassus yet stands behind us, if the mountains are reached in time, he may forever stay so.” And he can only hope to keep the bitterness from seeping too clearly into his voice. 

For there is a feeling within that has been growing with every passing moment since he left Spartacus’ side this night. Or perhaps it has been there for days already, maybe a whole moon, gnawing on his insides like a clawed beast waiting to get out. He is a man of battle, after all, who lives for blood and clash of steel, not one to keep shepherding the wounded and the weak, those unable to even lift a sword to defend themselves, as if he were little more than a fucking nursemaid.

“And to achieve such a thing…an escape…” Nasir sighs and worries his lip in contemplation. “You truly find it more than imagining?”

Hope is a thing Agron feels he has long since parted with, yet there it is now, clear in the eyes of the younger man even if half-hidden under a doubtful frown. And it serves Agron a grim reminder amidst the bloody haze that keeps taking hold.

For he knows that as much as he has cursed Spartacus and his change of course the whole of the darkening day, a part of him will forever be equally grateful for the difference of mind. Agron's own fate may have already been sealed a lifetime ago upon different soil, but there are others who Agron would now gladly see forge a different path, a path leading away from the hell of the Republic and its hold. And never will there be a better chance for that than now and by staying close to Spartacus' heel.

But Agron also knows that he will not follow. He will not leave this fucking land, not when there is yet one Roman heart beating and a sword within his reach to drive through it; how could he? His kind are not house animals and never will be. What life, what glory is he supposed to seek beyond the Alps when the rotten stench of Rome yet clings to his skin? How is he to pretend to find peace with hands set to raising cattle or growing grain, when all that he would ever yearn for is to see them to their rightful purpose: to have more Roman lives ended?

And it may not right all the wrongs, will not bring the dead back to the living or restore honor to those who have seen it ripped away from hand. But perhaps it can at least bring some form of justice, a balance, to this world that too often finds it lacking. Was that not what Spartacus himself sought out to do when he first asked them to raise their weapons for his cause?

His sword clatters to the ground as Agron removes the last of his armor, hiding a sigh with the movement, before finally answering the question yet suspended in the air. “Escape is not an easy task, yet far from impossible,” he begins, conviction behind his words, “Spartacus has accomplished far greater deeds already.”

“Ah yes, the slayer of Theokoles.” 

But there is no disrespect in Nasir’s voice, only good-natured mirth that bubbles over with an airy laugh. Then teasing voice is replaced by teasing fingers that soon enough find Agron’s skin finally free of remaining clothing, followed by a pair of chapped lips that quickly press a kiss at the hollow of his throat.

“Mm, the bringer of rain,” Agron replies with a chuckle of his own as a scene from earlier that day flashes in mind. And after that, he does not say a word more as he finds his lips otherwise occupied.

The other man straddles his lap in one swift act with hands already tangled in Agron’s hair, mouth hot on his, tongue wet and heavy and set to purpose. And it is not long before Agron goes to task to return favor.

But it is his stomach – the traitor – that stops them with its loud protest to another day without a full meal. And then suddenly, and without meaning to, Agron’s mind wanders back to the scene that greeted him earlier on his return: the rabbit skin drying by the fire, bones picked clean, two empty cups abandoned side by side in the dirt. And it only takes one look at his lover for him to see that Nasir is thinking the same thing.

And for a moment Agron does wonder if the Cilician, too, shall one day look beyond the mountains with hope in his eyes. Yet it is not a thought to dwell in. All that Agron can do is to wish that in such case, Nasir’s seemingly unending trust in the pirate will still hold merit.

Nasir casts his gaze down and pulls away from Agron’s arms. “You are hungry,” he states suddenly as if this were to be a great revelation, then quickly admonishes himself with a shake of his head. “But of course you are. Have you not eaten? All day? You did not take meal with Spartacus? No, Agron, you must eat something, we barely had a bite between us this morning.”

The man is rambling now, still avoiding Agron’s eye, and Agron begins to feel guilty for letting him act in such a way, though all the while knowing it hardly is the emptiness of his stomach the man is this troubled over.

“I am sure I saw some bread in the…” Nasir is about to rise to his feet when Agron finally stops him with a firm hold on his wrist.

“A grown man should be able to find his own food if he truly needs it.”

Nasir lifts his eyes to Agron’s and there is a confused look to them, as if these were not the words he had been expecting. Agron’s hand still lingers around the man’s wrist; he does not let go, yet loosens his grip so that he is only holding on by his fingertips.

“It is too late for a meal, now,” he continues, his thumb drawing small circles on Nasir’s skin as his lips curl up into a smile, “I would rather find mouth distracted with other task instead.” 

There is not much more convincing to be done before Nasir is once more melting in Agron’s embrace. And for a heartbeat, albeit a short one, Agron does feel ashamed, knows he is nothing but a thief in the night taking this moment – the very last one the two of them may ever share – and stealing it from Nasir with his silence. Yet he also knows were he to give voice to concerns now, the other man would surely find his way around them, as he so often has done, and this is something Agron cannot let happen. Not this time.

For the road Agron follows has but one outcome, if not in this war then in the next one – and there will always be a next one. And as much as he once thought there would be no fate worse than finding his arms absent Nasir, he knows better now. He would rather stand the rest of his days alone and have Nasir live than to keep him by his side and thus take him to his grave. An ocean between them would mean naught; he would take it as a blessing, if the alternative only found Nasir lifeless in his embrace.

And so his hands never falter and his mouth never ceases its travel, as his lips move along the man’s jawline and down the column of his neck, and his fingers map heated skin, and his arms come to frame the body whose every curve and ridge and smooth plane he has long since committed to memory. He breathes in Nasir’s scent and drinks in every sound, every noise, every drop, taking the man beneath him in every way fathomable – to him or to the gods.

And if a lone tear escapes from the corner of his eye then…well, it has already disappeared into silky raven locks before anyone has chance to take note of its journey.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“Is it time?”

It seems too dark outside to yet be daybreak, however Nasir does not question Agron’s timekeeping and makes to sit up to join the other man in task. But a hand on his exposed leg quickly stops him.

“There is no rush; the sun will keep us waiting for some time yet,” Agron answers, voice calm, almost soothing. His palm is warm on Nasir’s skin in the cool night air. “I fear sleep escapes me,” the man then offers as a way of explanation, releasing his hold on Nasir and returning to tying on his shin guards. “Better to set hands to purpose than let them rest idle.”

Nasir scrambles up on the bedroll and kneels besides Agron’s sitting form. He knows it has been far too long since the other man has had anything resembling a decent night’s rest and fears now that such a thing, along with the meager state of his nourishment, might soon take too great a toll on the German.

“I might find a task or two of my own for idle hands, if you were so willing,” he says softly in an attempt to coax the other man back to bed, a thing he is certain would only be of benefit for both of them in more ways than one. After all, they have spent far too much time apart as of late.

A low chuckle sounds in the darkness of the tent, yet Agron does not stop his dressing routine.

“Time has seen you grow bold,” Agron teases with light tone, “and impatient.” 

Nasir opens his mouth in protest but stops abruptly when he remembers. A new kind of warmth spreads somewhere within, and he cannot help the tentative smile forming on his lips.

“You stand for reason,” he says and grudgingly lets go of Agron when the man rises to his feet. “If Spartacus’ plan comes to pass, we shall soon have all the time between us we shall ever need.”

Agron does not answer, but leans down and places a kiss on the top of his head. The touch lingers, almost long enough for Nasir to wonder, but then Agron pulls away, right before Nasir has time to voice his confusion.

“Seek rest now if you are still able and take leave at first light.”

His voice sounds strange to Nasir’s ears suddenly, too rough and heavy for such commonplace request. But Nasir quickly brushes off the haunting feeling, laying the blame on the early hour they reside in.

“I will come and find you then,” he replies and watches Agron nod briefly and then turn to go. 

The German pulls back the heavy fabric of their tent to walk out, but then suddenly pauses with his hand gripping the edge of the opening. There is a moment when Nasir thinks he is about to say something else or perhaps to turn back again, but it passes quickly. And soon enough, the man’s back disappears from sight as the flap of the tent closes again behind him, leaving Nasir in the dark, alone with his thoughts of better days yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and line in the summary from the song ‘Heading Out To The Highway’ by Judas Priest.


	3. Don't You Cry Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You gotta make it your own way, but you'll be alright now, sugar.

Agron walks into the room whose owner’s blood yet stains the floors. It is dimly lit, with only a couple of candles placed on the corner table, making him nearly stumble on his own shield when he first crosses the doorway. And he is about to kick the wretched thing across the room, but then suddenly stills himself and swallows down the curses ready to be hurled and sits heavily on the bed instead.

Out of habit, he begins to undo the latches on his armor, but his hand stops abruptly and then drops back to his side. And perhaps, with tomorrow’s journey in mind, he should at least attempt to find rest, but the room feels too dark, too empty, too big for him alone. With a deep sigh, he hangs his head down, and his fingers grab the edge of the bedding. Tight, as if he were suddenly afraid of falling down.

“Agron.”

There is a moment of unfamiliar trepidation before he finally looks up towards the doorway, wary of what he might find there. The other man is standing still, leaning against the wall, half-covered in the shadows that make it harder to see his face. And first, Agron expects more pleas or angry words to spill from the man’s lips, but is soon to learn there are none to come. In their stead, only a smile that does not quite reach dark eyes and then searching hands and mouth. And Agron lets himself be found. One last time.

When they part ways come morning light, it will be the last time they will ever set eyes upon one another again in this life – and only the gods would know of the next. And it shall be with the memory of loving touch in mind; Agron is willing to take that as the solace that it is.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


He stands in the doorway a moment more, arm resting on the pale stone wall that feels cool against his skin. He steals a last glimpse of the sleeping form on the bed before turning away, not wishing to disturb the man’s rest further with his presence.

Or that at least is what Agron attempts telling himself as his feet take him away, back along the narrow corridor from whence he once came. As self-imposed as the burden may be, it still weighs heavy on his heart, and so Agron knows it is a far more selfish wish that keeps him from Nasir’s side this night. For as much pain as his body is able to withstand, he has come to know that some forms of torture are even beyond his endurance.

He pushes any lingering feelings of guilt aside, albeit with a trembling hand, as he makes his way beyond the empty corridors and halls and out into the open yard; the cool night breeze a welcome reprieve from the stale, stagnant air within the villa walls. He only stays his feet once he reaches the steps outside and draws in a deep breath as he leans heavily against one of the columns framing the entryway.

The sky is clear this night, clearer than it has been in recent memory. The stars are out, and though there is the very first hint of dawn threatening the edge of the horizon, it will be some time yet before the sun will make its appearance.

Agron lets his head fall back against the cold marble and looks up into the vastness spanning before his eyes, wondering how such a thing can stay so unchanging, all the way from the shores of this fucking land of piss and shit to every faraway corner of the earth. It is the one constant in a world that offers little else to hold on to, the one thing that has stayed the same from one day to the next; it has been as is for all his life and maybe shall be for all of time.

And perhaps there is solace to be had in that thought as well. That come what may, they shall both stand under the same skies the remainder of their days. Under the same stars, the same moon, listening to the same winds.

He runs a hand across his face and sighs at this foolish sentimentality that seems to have taken hold as of late and then peers back up at the starlit canopy above, when he suddenly feels something gently tugging at his arm.

“ _Agron! Agron!”_

“ _Yes?” he asks with longsuffering patience and looks down in the dark eyes that are now brimming with unbridled excitement._

“ _Does that one not look like a crown?”_

_The boy’s hand is pointing up into the sky and Agron follows it with his gaze, and then cannot help the smile that pulls his own lips._

“ _Oh, do you not know?” he asks, and his smile widens when his brother’s eyes shine even brighter. “It is the crown of the giant king who rules the northern sky.”_

“ _It is?”_

_Agron nods in earnest. “But it became too small, so he left it behind and went in search of something more fitting.”_

“ _But whose is it now?”_

“ _No one’s,” Agron answers and shrugs._

“ _Then maybe we could take it?”_

“ _From the sky?”_

_The other boy looks wildly around him, then spots a boulder of rock at the edge of the snow covered field. “We could, if we stood closer to its height.”_

“ _Idiot,” Agron groans with a teasing laugh and a shake of his head, “You think you will reach the skies from that rock alone?”_

_His brother frowns a moment until his face splits into a grin once more. “I will have to stand on your shoulders,” he says, and pulls Agron’s hand, “Come on.”_

The images seem to come from nowhere and then fade away just as quickly when he opens his eyes. It has been long since he has thought of his brother in such way, has seen the boy with the wide grin and clear eyes instead of the ashen, blood splattered face that once continued to haunt his days and nights. Then again, he realizes now with a pang of guilt, it seems too long since he has thought of his brother at all.

Though, in his defense, there has been little time for reflection in recent memory, when every waking moment has been filled with task or struggle. And it is also true, he knows, that though no loss will ever be quite the same as that of his brother, there are too many deaths now weighing on his shoulders, too many friends gone from this world, too many visions of dead eyes and lifeless bodies swimming in his head to even keep count.

And he cannot help to think if there was something more he could have done to change the course of their fate, the fate of the dead, that of Duro… But then he swiftly stops himself from indulging yet again in such futile contemplation. There is nothing he can do for his brother now; but whereas once the thought brought him nothing but immeasurable pain, it now only emboldens his resolve of not repeating past mistakes with another one so close to his heart.

A deep breath leaves his chest, and he closes his tired eyes for another heartbeat, but is jolted awake again, when the sound of footsteps suddenly draws near.

The other man takes his place atop the stairs and then looks up to the night sky with what almost seems like a wistful gaze, as hard as such an expression is to reconcile with the man in question.

“I had thought there to be little in this world to surprise me anymore,” Crixus says after a moment or two of silence, his eyes never leaving the sky above.

Agron gives a resigned sigh and pushes himself off the stone to fully face the other man. “Yet I fear it has been some time coming, has it not?”

“Perhaps so,” Crixus agrees, and then stays quiet for another moment. “Nevertheless, it is a dark day that sees us standing upon equal ground this way.”

“A dark day indeed.” 

The words may be spoken in jest, yet a certain truth behind them remains.

And so the two men let silence fall between them once more, along with an understanding. The thought may never be given voice, yet both men know that beyond all their disagreements and mutual distrust, they are more the same than not. They are still driven with the need for blood and vengeance while others, Spartacus among them, have turned their sights beyond the war, to finding hope amidst the despair instead of fighting it with steel and spear. Others who now are more than ready to seek freedom in place of victory.

But for Agron and his like, the only freedom worth anything  _is_ victory over their enemies, and he cannot see it ever being not so. And in this, he knows, he and the Gaul are of same mind. 

Crixus takes a deep breath and then lets out a wry chuckle, and Agron finds an eyebrow rising on his own forehead in silent query.

“And you are certain you are of mind to take your orders from a fucking Gaul?” Crixus asks then with a ghost of a smile clinging to his lips.

“Rather from a Gaul than from the fucking Romans,” Agron says in response, and is relieved to see his words are taken as intended. He has little inclination in trying to further explain his reasoning to anyone this night.

“In such case…” Crixus hesitates only a moment before he extends his hand in a familiar gesture, though in fairness, one not too often shared between the two of them. “I would say it shall be an honor to stand with you in battle, yet…”

And Agron returns the gesture in kind, surprised to find the beginning of a genuine smile on his face as he completes Crixus’ words with his own, “Better not tempt the gods with false proclamation.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


It is only long after the echo of the footsteps has already faded away that Nasir finally turns on the bed. The mattress is soft under his back and the sheets silky on his skin, yet he might as well be lying on rock covered ground for all the comfort they bring. This night. When his whole body still burns from gentle touch and harsh truths alike.

“ _My place is forever with you.”_

“ _Not in this.”_

It is clear there is no rest to be had as long as Agron’s words keep running in circles in his mind, as long as they so stubbornly refuse to make sense. And so Nasir strongly doubts he will ever find rest again, for how is he to make sense of something devoid of all reason.

“ _I ask only that you live.”_

And despite the hours passed, Nasir can still but frown in genuine confusion as the conversation continues flowing through his mind in a never ending stream; Agron’s meaning still as unclear as it was when the words first left his tongue. Nasir is told to live and what can he say but ‘yes’ because what else  _can_ he say? After all, he does not wish to die. Yet Nasir still does not truly understand what it is he has agreed upon, and wonders now if he ever will.

Unlike the German, who seems so clear of purpose, so certain of what his life can be and what it cannot, Nasir realizes that even after all this time, he himself still holds little knowledge of any such purpose of his own. Yes, he is a warrior. Yes, he would have followed Agron to battle with no hesitation, but a spear in hand and a smile upon his lips. Yet he can only wonder if such life would ever have been the path of purely his own choosing, without Agron, without his heart leading the way. And should it be his path now or in the yet distant days?

Nasir cannot say.

And life beyond the Alps? He would have followed Agron there as well, as he will now follow Spartacus; but is it either the path he  should be taking? Are his hands any more meant for raising cattle than Agron’s are? And is that now supposed to be the purpose that he seeks?

Until this night, life has solely meant the absence of death, a yet beating heart, his flesh lacking further cut by Roman blade. Every waking moment has been spent either in battle or preparing for one, and any free time has not been wasted on futile reflection but used for eating, drinking, laughing, loving… The need to fight, to kill, to win and survive has run deeper than any desire to stop and question life choices or plan for an unsecure future.

And so it is only now, when his whole world seems to slowly come to a halt around him on this empty bed in this conquered villa, that Nasir allows himself to contemplate the actual reality of  _living_ the rest of his life, for however long of it is left, and not only surviving. And moreover, doing so without Agron. And it is not the loss alone that gives him pause but also his confusion over how much there truly is to lose.

His mind is swimming in questions now, but they all still remain unanswered. And there is no one left to answer them for him; it is only him now, him alone. Alone on those stone steps under the pale moonlight where Agron left him. Alone to face the rising winds.

Agron’s shield yet stands leaning against the wall in the doorway, the curved steel catching the light of a flickering candle. And Nasir rolls to his side turning his back to the room and swallows down the tears that are yet to fall this night. They taste bitter on his tongue.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The hillside path takes a steep and more treacherous turn, forcing him, along with the others, to slow down his march. Pebbles roll under his feet like errant pearls, and he nearly loses his grip as he tries to scale the boulder now standing in his way. And he cannot help but bark out a string of curses under his breath as he fights to gain his footing before leaning against his knees to draw in needed air.

But the chance for rest is fleeting at best, and soon enough a friendly hand on his shoulder already urges him to move along. He is about to follow, when he catches something at the corner of his eye; and the sight is enough to halt his feet for one more heartbeat.

In the distance, on the other side of the valley, another line of people is moving along the top of a hill before disappearing behind the bend - slowly, yet ever so surely. And though he knows it would be impossible to make out any one person among so many and from this distance, he finds himself training his eyes even so.

Someone calls his name in front, but he still keeps his eyes stubbornly fixed on the spot where the faraway figures are dropping from view. He is almost afraid to break his gaze now, foolishly thinking that if only he can keep the people in his sights, somehow he will also keep  _him_ there as well. No. Keep him  _here._ Here and within reach. And it is nothing but a childish thought, he understands as much, yet he finds himself barely able to blink, the sudden bout of uncertainty over chosen path freezing him to the spot.

Then a butt of a spear hits him in the side, breaking his reverie, and he once more stumbles on his feet.

“Watch your fucking step,” he spits out, glaring at those around him. But there are few who pay his outburst any mind, and the steadily moving crowd merely passes by his standing form without so much as a sideways glance.

And when he next looks back over his shoulder, the last of the people scaling the distant hill have already disappeared from sight behind the bend, never to be seen again. In their stead, only the howling north wind travels across the now empty land, bending grass and blowing sand in the air in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and line in the summary from the song ‘Don’t Cry’ by Guns N’ Roses.


	4. Holdin' On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holdin' on to never say goodbye.

“Tell me,” Castus says and reaches out his hand to carefully brush over the other man’s back, doing his best to ignore the subtle way the muscles beneath his fingers flinch at the touch.

“You will not wish to hear it,” Nasir says tiredly, staring ahead into the flames, chin leaning against bended knee, and the same insistent frown still upon his brow.

“If you will not clear meaning, I shall only imagine far worse words,” Castus insists while absently lifting his scrap of a blanket better around himself. As still on the scouting mission, they are to continue on their journey well before morning light, giving them no time to put up tent this night. And Castus begins to find the absent shelter sorely missed in the growing chill in the night air.

“I do not regret your company,” Nasir finally says and Castus sees him, too, shuddering in the cold, yet the man does nothing to cover bare shoulders. He only gives out a wistful sigh before continuing, “I only regret that it is...” 

His voice trails off, making Castus sit up fully on the ground and lean in to better hear him.

“What?”

“That it is you who are here and not him,” Nasir says; and he was right, the words are not the ones Castus would wish to hear. 

He sighs and almost draws back the hand now resting on the other man’s shoulder but stills himself at the last moment and lets it stay where it is.

He has time.  _They_ have time. More than one night, in any case.

“At least I am here,” he replies evenly and then sidles up closer to fire-warmed skin. 

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“And you are certain your men have gathered the last of the arms and kindle?”

Agron lifts his eyes heavensward, yet bites back the retort and the copious number of curses that are close to leave his lips. “We stand ready for battle, Crixus,” he says instead, as calmly as he can, “I have told you this.”  _A thousand and one fucking times already._

The Gaul’s dark gaze sweeps the campsite around them before returning back to Agron’s face.

“And I have told you I will not have us fall prey to careless mistakes and lack of preparation. That is and only should be a Roman trait.”

And despite his own frustrations, Agron does understand the intent behind Crixus’ words; and for once in his life, he decides to humor the other man instead of goading him further.

“We have taken count of everything, from every man and piece of steel to every errant jar of pitch,” he begins to explain, “We have scouted the fields and the valley. Every open task has been finished. There is nothing left to do but to see this fight to its fucking end and the streets of Rome running with blood.”

The Gaul somberly nods his head but he still stays in place, his eyes lingering in the distance, and Agron gives out an exasperated sigh. And he has been told  _he_ is the stubborn one?  _Fuck the gods._

“The day grows long, Crixus. Go and seek Naevia and at last fall from sight,” he says before adding with a wry grin, “I hold grave doubt it is my company you rather keep this night in wait of coming victory.” 

It is those words that finally have desired effect and bring Crixus back to action, and the man leaves Agron with a shake of his head and a few choice curses muttered under his breath. And as Agron stands watching Crixus walking away, he finds his own words echoing in his ears and realizes that for the first time in a long time, he is actually close to believing them himself, believing that victory may truly be within their reach once more.

They have only traveled from win to win since parting ways with Spartacus, and it is no longer beyond imagining that they would now stand victorious over the whole stinking Republic and whatever last meager legion of men it will send their way. And the mere thought is enough to heat Agron’s blood almost as much as battle itself. Such result has been too long in the making.

In the distance, Crixus has reached Naevia’s side, and the sight of the pair’s embrace has Agron finally lower his gaze. In search of a better object for his attention, he lifts the sword yet in his hand and absentmindedly runs his finger along the newly sharpened edge and watches the last rays of the setting sun reflecting from the blade.

The emptiness of his own arms is a subject he would rather not dwell in. And although he still is as certain as ever that decisions made were for the best for all concerned, nevertheless, as their army now stands closer and closer to ultimate victory instead of presumed doom, it is hard to ignore the pang of regret – as selfish as it may be – over the fact that he does not have Nasir here to share in the spoils of the coming days, when Rome very well may fall and they...

“Agron!”

He turns to see Widald walking towards him with a grin on his face and a cup in his raised hand. And though the man’s presence will not exactly hold a candle to the Syrian yet haunting Agron’s mind, it at least offers a distraction from less welcome thoughts.

“You should share drink with us before the fucking Gauls manage to drain the last drop,” the man says once he reaches Agron’s side.

Agron’s gaze shifts from the other German’s face to the scene behind his back, and his brows furrow. “You hold celebration?” he asks, but the question only has Widald grinning wider.

“What better reason? We stand mere days away from marching into Rome herself,” he answers boldly, “We will yet feed the sad fucks their own cocks and do so before the moon has grown full.”

Although the sentiment is hardly something Agron would disagree with, he also will never be one to give in to unfettered optimism, given proper cause or not.

“Perhaps it best to refrain from bold declaration as the city yet stands without a fucking wound,” he warns cautiously.  


“You think them to offer any match to us now when they have not done so yet?” the other man says, huffing out another wry chuckle, undeterred even under Agron's growing frown. “We will teach the cunts a fucking lesson not to make enemies of those hailing from beyond the Rhine if they wish to keep their worthless heads.”

And Agron gives one last sigh in the face of the other man’s determination, but he knows it to be a sigh of resignation not one of refutation. Perhaps it is time to take heed of his own earlier advice and not hold further concern over the morrow this night. A day that ends with his armor covered in more Roman blood than his own stands well enough on its own merit and is always worthy of a drink at least.

And so his lips finally pull into a smirk once more, and he quickly sheaths his sword, grabbing the other man by the shoulder as he tells him the same thing.

“Vielleicht eine solche Ansicht doch ein Getränk wert ist...” 

“Ein Getränk...oder zwei,” Widald adds. And Agron clasps a hand on his back with a hearty laugh as they make their way across the camp and over to the raucous crowd slowly gathering around the fires.

“So you need me to hold hand before you can take to drink like helpless babes, you useless fucks?” Agron offers as greeting, eliciting a roar of cheers and jeers alike that he meets with a widening grin and then follows the others’ lead and lifts a cup to his lips. 

Yet despite flowing drink and likeminded company, the strange feeling of loneliness never quite leaves him, leading his thoughts to all those who, for one reason or another, no longer stand among them. Those who would be here if only they still drew breath, like Donar – like Duro, gods help him – and those whose fate lead them on another path.

Like Nasir.

Like Spartacus...

And for a moment, the sweet wine turns sour on Agron’s tongue as the ever-present, nagging guilt over torn loyalties casts a shadow upon any feeling of jubilation – no matter how earned. But he is quick to drown the bitter taste with another mouthful of drink, forcing the smile back on his face.

This is where he belongs; this is where he knows he should be. It has been a long time since he last felt this at peace in his skin, felt like himself in quite this way. And when soon enough they shall find themselves at the gates of Rome herself and see her in all her might kneeling before them, Agron will face that day, not with wails and doubting tears, but with blood upon his thoughts and a fucking grin on his face. As they all should.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The dawning light peeks over the hills, painting the sky in golden hues, and as easily as that, another night is over and another day is to begin. Nasir rolls his shoulders and does his best to stretch out his back; it feels stiff and tight after long hours of staying on his feet, and he knows it is in need of more than a rub of his hand to ease the tension. And there is no adequate reason for him to yet linger here, he truly should take to bed for a moment’s rest at least, but something is keeping him from leaving. And he could tell himself it is only his dedication to duty that stays his feet, but he knows too well it is the thought of an empty tent and a pallet that never seems narrow enough for him anymore that stays his feet.

“You plan to keep watch all night and all fucking day?”

The familiar voice and the hand on Nasir’s shoulder quickly bring him back from his thoughts, and he has to do his best to quell the irritation suddenly budding under his skin. When will the man ever learn to leave him be? How long a distance must Nasir find between them to finally be rid of insistent presence?

“I do what I must to fulfill given task,” he says dully, keeping his eyes on the view below.

“Ah, is that so...” And the hand on his shoulder travels gently up his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, and Nasir closes his eyes without meaning to.

“...Yet despite bold vow, it seems the great warrior finds himself quite easily distracted.”

The man’s words are so heavy with tease that Nasir wonders how he is even able to lift them off his tongue. And Nasir scoffs at him and pushes the persistent hand away, but the action is of little help as soon enough the same hand has found its way around his waist.

“If you are here only to mock, then you may as well leave now,” he attempts to snap back, but his tone is, admittedly, lacking genuine edge.

“I shall gladly offer aid in task, if you are that way inclined.” 

The teasing voice is now little more than hot breath beside Nasir’s ear, tickling his skin, and Nasir leans back against solid chest and feels the arm winding tighter around him. Silence descends between them, and Nasir turns his attention back to the valley below as it bathes in the first rays of the morning sun. Something stings behind his eyes, and he blinks, but puts it down to lack of sleep and nothing else.

The rising winds around him send hair flying in his face and he idly brushes the strands away.

“Why did I not go with you?” he asks then with a frown. It is one of the many questions he is yet to find an adequate answer to, despite his best efforts. _And why did you go without me?_

And it is true that at first, time and the growing distance between them seemed to make the separation easy enough bear; friendly faces and task and duty filled his waking hours, leaving no time for useless ponderings. But Nasir is now slowly coming to the realization that letting go may prove itself to be an enemy on par with a Roman century after all – if not a whole legion.

“You can yet have a proper life and happiness, Nasir. The kind you would never find at my side in battle.” 

“And you believe I am to find all that here, alone, without you?” And the frown upon Nasir’s forehead now only deepens at the thought. 

“Without me, yet hardly alone.”

There is a quick press of lips to his temple, and Nasir lifts his hand and rubs the spot there absentmindedly. And then another gust of wind blows across the hillside, chasing away the last remnants of ghosting touch, and Nasir finds himself alone on the cliff’s edge once more.

But Agron’s voice still rings in his ears, and something heavy and unmovable settles within Nasir’s stomach then as realization hits, cold and unforgiving, suddenly as clear before his eyes as the new dawning day. Yes, Agron may have gone with Crixus in search of blood and glory, but would he ever have gone alone – would he truly have gone at all – if he did not think Nasir would be well enough without him? If he did not think  _Nasir_ would rather be  without him? Without him and with someone else...

And as easily as that, all that has passed begins to make both perfect sense and no sense at all, both at the same time.

The stupid ass of a man. The stupid, stupid, stubborn German fuck. Did he truly fear Nasir leaving him so much that he rather pushed him away himself? What fucking wisdom is there in that?

And the frustration within gradually turns into a seething rage. Rage at Agron, at himself, at Castus, at the gods and the world and anything else Nasir can name. And he understands now he should have never let the other man out of sight. Fuck Agron and his noble wishes of life and happiness, Nasir should have fought and kicked and screamed until his last breath to have them meet on equal ground.

And then, suddenly, the words once lost to him are all there, slowly drowning him in all the things that were left unsaid. But it is too late now. Nasir can bellow at the world to his heart’s content, yet he knows that the person he would most wish to speak the needed words to is the one person who will never hear them.

And Nasir finds himself blinking again as he now looks back to the lightening sky before him and then absently runs his hand over his face.

Maybe it is sand in his eyes, after all.

He is finally contemplating abandoning his post in search of clearly much needed rest, when he hears rushing footsteps somewhere up the hill above him. And this time it is clear they belong to someone of more flesh and bone than any figment of Nasir’s imagination, and so he holds his spear a little tighter in his hand and adjusts his stance to better see who is approaching.

It is one of the men Nasir has dispatched to guard duty some time earlier, and he is now running towards him in apparent haste. And Nasir braces himself for whatever news the young guard will bring, quickly pushing aside his own personal grievances in the face of more pressing concerns. He is well aware their remaining group of rebels would be ill-matched if faced with a Roman attack so soon after making camp, yet one is not out of the realm of possibility, and in such a case, Nasir knows he has to be prepared to act swiftly.

And maybe, buried somewhere deep within his now restless eyes, there also remains hope for news of Crixus and his men in battle. And what would he do then? What would Nasir now do for one chance to see Agron again? And even if holding on to such hope now may be but a fool’s errand the way things stand, how is Nasir supposed to let go, knowing the other man still treads the same soil as him, breathes the same air and sleeps under the same sky?

“What is it?” he queries as the boy draws closer, but the youth is too out of breath to answer straight away, and the longer he stays quiet the thinner grows Nasir’s patience. “Speak up, there is no time to fucking dally! What have you seen?”

“A rider…” the boy starts while still fighting for air, “A lone rider approaching from the south, up the pass.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and line in the summary from the song ‘Never Say Goodbye’ by Bon Jovi.
> 
> Translation of the dialogue in German:  
> “Maybe such sentiment is worth a drink.”  
> “A drink...or two.”


	5. Fade To Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing darkness taking dawn. I was me, but now he's gone.

His head falls forward and the sudden strain to his neck has him jerking awake. It is only darkness that greets him then, an eerie silence in the air where even a bird’s crow cannot be heard. And at first Agron thinks he must have unwittingly crossed over to the shores of the afterlife already, that those useless Roman shits must have failed in attempt to keep him suffering for longer. Though it should not come as a surprise; they failed to kill him when that was their intent, so it is only fitting they would now end his life by mistake alone.

But it is after a moment more that his eyes begin to find the now familiar shapes of tents yet in the distance, his ears to pick up on the quiet cries and moans of the other captives around him; and he realizes with lightened heart that he is yet of the living. A realization made even more apparent when he makes attempt to lean back on his heels, and the piece of wood behind him hits the yet raw cuts on his skin with unintended force, leaving him gasping for breath as the searing white pain has him seeing stars in the overcast sky.

Though there is not a whimpered wail to escape his lips even now; gods be fucked if he were to give any added entertainment to his audience. Not that there is such to speak of at this hour, only the few guards to be seen, disinterested and already half-asleep, their dozing profiles dark against flickering torchlight.

And it baffles the mind to think it was those hands that brought defeat to Crixus and their army, hands that Agron would not trust to wipe a pig’s ass with any considerable skill. But it is said there is greatness in numbers alone; and perhaps, Agron now muses, there is solid truth in that, for any other explanation escapes reason.

And he thinks back the best he can to that last fateful day, the last battle, keeps piecing it together as he has been doing these past days, whenever his mind has been given even the briefest chance to roam free from otherwise constant torment. And as futile as such reflection is now, he still cannot help asking himself what could have been done differently, by Crixus, by him, by anyone. Should they have held higher ground for longer? Did the apparent ease of taking down Arrius and his men blind Crixus to greater threat? Was it Agron’s failure to secure flank that left them open to attack and, in the end, defeat?

And then he wonders, what would have Spartacus done; what course of action, what plan, what strategy would he have chosen to avoid grim fate. Though the answer is already quick on Agron’s lips. Along with a hollow laugh that threatens to escape.

Of course.

Spartacus would not have gone at all.

It is a sobering thought, as much as a troubling one, and Agron shakes his head in attempt to further clear his head, an action that does little to help the dull ache that seems to have taken permanent residence behind his eyes. He then decides to leave further ponderings for the moment and set his mind to more pressing task. As he is yet of this world, it would serve him well to assess damage – not to pride but to flesh – in case he is yet called upon to use his body again in coming days, preferably in attempt to rip the ever present grin straight off of Caesar’s face.

The cut on his side is the deepest, this Agron already knows, yet it is not bleeding any longer, and he is willing to take that as the small blessing that it is. The rest: the strip of skin removed from chest, the lash marks still stinging on his back, even the broken nose are but flesh wounds, injuries he is more than able to sustain.

And he allows himself the brief moment of levity as he wonders the irony of it all. How the Romans now insist on inflicting pain and torture in hope of answers spilling from loosened lips, when the fucks themselves were the ones to teach him all about enduring such a fate in preparation for the arena. And they even have the gall now to stand surprised when no words from him are forthcoming under their ministrations.

There is a familiar string of curses ready upon tongue to be hurled at his captors, but Agron stills himself at the last moment, deciding to spare his flesh from further attention this night. His fate is not yet carved in stone, and he would do well to conserve strength and not lay waste to it.

Not that Agron is a fool, in this at least, and he knows there is little chance for him to escape from here with life or limbs intact. At best, he can expect to see his death postponed until he is standing on the sands of another arena somewhere; at worst, he is to die soon enough at the end of a spike as warning, once the army finally moves on and has grown tired of his company. And though neither outcome particularly warms the heart, and the thought of being yet again naught but performing puppet under Roman thumb forces bile to rise in his throat, he would still take the death of a gladiator over being tied up to a pole like a common dog when that last strike hits.

But neither death is here yet, and as long as he still draws breath, there at least is a chance, a chance of  _something_ . And moreover, as long as they keep him alive under interrogation, as long as they still pose infuriating question upon infuriating question about Spartacus and his plans in the north, Agron will know his brother yet walks this earth and walks it free. And Agron can but hope that every passing day will take him closer to the mountains and the freedom he has sought for his people, and that those who walk along him are blessed enough to share the same fate.

As their path takes them to where Agron shall never follow.

And for a fleeting moment his mind runs away from him without permission, and he finds himself thinking how it could have been had he not embarked on this godsforsaken mission, had he not placed all faith in his desire for blood but placed it in their leader instead. Could he then have found common ground with Spartacus, after all? Found purpose, found worth in the man’s vision for freedom – not in death but in life – for those unable to fight for it themselves?

Perhaps.

Could he have found strength by Nasir’s side and not weakness? Could he have tried?

Perhaps he could have.

Perhaps he should have.

The wind blows more freely now, chasing away the clouds from its path as it moves across the night sky, and soon enough the moon is out, casting its pale light upon the sands beneath his bruised knees. And with some effort, Agron leans his weary head back against the wood behind him and looks up into the skies above. And a silent prayer leaves his lips then, escaping quickly into the night for the winds to carry. Yet it is not intended for any gods to hear but for someone far more deserving. A simple plea, before exhaustion forces his eyes close again.

Live happy. Live free.

Live.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


_Is this what you intended? Is this what you wished for? Is this it? Is this how it is supposed to be?_

Nasir stands with his toes on the edge and looks down to the valley and campsite spanning under his feet, hazily lit by the late afternoon sun that barely seeps through between the clouds. He shifts his stand, sending pebbles tumbling down the steep cliffside into the drop below, and feels the wind gathering at his feet.

It blows harder at this height.

And he can only marvel now how he has so readily, so cockily presumed to know what a life without Agron is to be. Presumed to know the emptiness the man left in his wake, presumed to know the depth of darkness on those nights when sleep is not to be found. When in truth, he has not known at all.

For  _this_ is what it means to live without Agron. It is not to wake up to yet another new day that spans distance between them; it is to wake up to a dawn Agron’s eyes shall never see.  _That_ is what it is. To go on breathing with the knowledge that the man you hold to heart has already drawn his last breath. 

And though Nasir is no stranger to loss and sometimes it feels he has already lost more people in this life than he has ever held, from his family – even if them he barely remembers – to all those lost in the hands of his dominus to all those lost in this war; still, this is something intractably different. And of course it should not come as a surprise; even if Agron is the first person he has loved, Nasir does understand the consequences of such sentiment. He may be young but far from stupid after all. Yet the gravity of the feeling and how it still only seems to grow with every drawn breath despite the unclosable distance now stretching between them  _is_ a surprise none the same.

And it is almost a bitter laugh that leaves his lips then, or a strangled sob, it is hard to say for certain. Though there are no more tears to spill from eyes, this much he knows. For Agron is a gladiator, a warrior, and Nasir will not honor his memory with tears and weeping. Agron is a…

But the thought stalls in mind as he suddenly understands the error in his words. And it is like a kick to his gut all over again, stealing all breath and forcing his feet to find steadier ground.

No.

Agron was a warrior.

Agron was a...

He  _was_ .

And he will be honored as such, not with whimpered sobs and wails in the darkness of an empty tent, but with the blood of those who took him from this world. He deserves that much at least.

“It is a long way down.”

The gravel rustles under the other man’s feet as his steps take him to Nasir’s side; and Nasir opens his mouth to give reply, but the words stay trapped in his throat, and it is only a shuddered breath that escapes his lips in their stead. Though, it seems their leader does not take this as a slight, his tired eyes belying only understanding before he shifts his gaze from Nasir’s face back to the view spanning before them.

“He was a fighter, born and raised,” Spartacus says solemnly, with grim respect, “and he gave life for his cause, on the battlefield as was his wish.” 

And Nasir does not disagree, only swallows down the yet lingering regret over his own part in hastening such a fate.

“With sword in hand and blood upon his thoughts,” the other man adds then with a worn-out smile, and the familiar tilt in his voice is almost enough to distract Nasir’s lips into a smile of their own before he catches himself. 

Slowly but steadily the clouds make their way across the sky, and then for a brief moment the sun is out, bathing the valley in golden light.

“The sands stand ready for tonight,” Nasir says, when he finally trusts his voice enough to speak, thinking it best not to waste his words in empty sentiments and futile conversation.

And it seems clear Spartacus understands the inclination as he only gives a short nod in reply before reaching out a hand to clasp Nasir’s shoulder. “Then take to meal and rest in preparation, I would have you of form when we spill Roman blood upon them.”

And this time it is Nasir’s turn to nod in somber understanding.

And when Spartacus pats his arm in parting and turns to go, Nasir lifts his chin and holds his head up with pride and purpose in a manner he thought already lost to him. Once, almost in another life it seems now, he was forced to give promise of wresting joy out of remaining days, a promise he has not only cursed since but doubted he could ever justly honor. Yet now, for the first time since he ever made that vow, he begins to truly feel as if he might be able to live up to it after all.

For there  _is_ yet joy to be found in this world. Though for now, it is not the joy of living but that of vengeance. This shall be his compromise.

The departed is free to take that as he will.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The jeers of the soldiers have all but died by now, a dry wind blowing across the yard in their place, sending sand flying in the air. It grits in his teeth.

It is getting harder and harder to draw breath, Agron realizes; his body hangs too heavy on the cross, the weight of it pulling down on every muscle in his chest. He shifts awkwardly, lifting himself by his arms, but his strength is quickly waning, and he knows that soon enough he will lose this fight.

Yet such thought holds little regret for him any longer for even if given chance, what could he do to change this fate? Would he grip a sword if offered? Would he hold a shield in hand and join the battle? There is a bitter laugh ready to leave his lips at the thought, but he has no air left to spare and it ends up catching in his throat, the muscles there constricting in vain as he tries to swallow around the tightness.

The gods punish a fool who turns from a brother and thinks he can stand taller on his own, and Agron can but hope now that they will deem this to be enough and not seek further penance. Yet he also knows they are capricious fucks these gods he is pleading and there are no guarantees, not in the next life as there never were in this one.

And when his eyes finally slide close and chin meets chest, the darkness that greets him is a blessing and a curse all in one, filled with an ocean of faces: fallen men, women – some of whom he can name, most he cannot – nothing but ghosts of days past now swimming before his eyes. And then, Duro.

And the ache that always follows with the memory is there but a moment and then, ever so gently, replaced with relief, with cautious hope of awaited reunion. Perhaps then, at last, it is done.

It is done.

_Ich hab dich vermisst, Brüderchen._

And the boy spreads his arms wide in a challenge and sticks out his tongue, and then spins on his heels and runs away, his laughter echoing in Agron’s ears long after the darkness has already hidden him from sight. And Agron is almost ready to follow, when yet another face appears before his eyes and halts his step. And by sheer will alone, he drags himself back to the living, desperately keeping hold of the vision with bloodied fists, knowing that soon enough it will be forever ripped away from grasp.

Dark eyes and a tentative smile, the straight line of a nose, hair falling over yet narrow shoulders... The memory is so vivid, Agron can almost hear the voice in his ears even now. Feel the sun warm on his back. Breathe in the smell of smoke that stubbornly clings to his skin.

“ _You suffer no wound?” Nasir asks, and his smile only widens when their eyes meet across the temple floor. So what can Agron do then but return the smile in kind._

“ _The gods favor me, little man,” he says. And if he is boasting a little, well, it is not completely without merit. But, as expected, the Syrian will not let such declarations go uncontested._

“ _Call me that again, and they shall turn from you,” he quickly threatens in return, and by now, the grin on his face is wide enough to split his face in two if he is not careful._

_And Agron is certain he has never seen a thing of more beauty in all his days, never known anything that could make his heart as light as it is this very moment. And for the first time in his life, Agron finds that he is more than glad to concede the fight._

_He catches Nasir’s face between his hands, and he smiles, and he smiles, and he smiles. And the sun is high in the midday sky. And the lips beneath his own taste of sweet promises yet unspoken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and line in the summary from the song ‘Fade To Black’ by Metallica.
> 
> Translation of the line in German:  
> I have missed you, little brother.


	6. All That Could Have Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left with a trace of all that was and all that could have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters will at times briefly touch on topics like depression/suicidal(ish) thoughts/PTSD. And this might be just a silly little story, but since those are sensitive subjects for many in real life, I wanted to give you fair warning now.

“ _Agron? You see our son an Illyrian king?” Her husband’s tease is soft in her ear and she smiles._

“ _No,_ _a mount of strength,” she says placing a kiss on the baby’s forehead, “according to my people.” She ignores the snort from behind her shoulder and tucks in the tiny fist that tries to escape its bundle. “Do not scoff. He will grow into it.”_

_The arms around her waist wind tighter._

“ _Perhaps, then, he will be both, a mountain and a king.” There is laughter in his voice and she keeps smiling, even as she shakes her head in response._

“ _We have enough of rulers and swayers in our midst. Leave that to the Romans and Gauls and the stupid fools who want to deal with them. My son shall have more mind than that.” She tilts her head enough to catch her husband’s eye. “Even if he has a stubborn ass for a father.”_

_There are not many that would risk such words against a man who stands head above most and whose shoulders are wide enough to bring mind a barn door. The ones that have tried still bear a lasting reminder in the form of a crooked nose or missing teeth. But then she holds power over him no other has – lover or foe – power that leaves him trembling and on his knees with no more than a gentle nudge._

_He barks out a laugh. “For his sake then, let us hope he takes after you in such matters.”_

_He presses his lips against her skin before letting go and stepping closer to the fire. He throws another piece of wood into the flames and watches sparks fly high into the night sky._

“ _So if not a king, what then?”_

_She is young, her head still filled with foolish wishes and dreams. So she holds her firstborn closer to her heart and closes her eyes, sending a silent plea to any god that would grace her with an open ear. It is the only prayer that she knows she will ever make for this child and for any other._

“ _Happy,” she whispers into the wind._

  


* * * * *

  


If he had the strength, Agron would laugh, and not just laugh, but throw his head back and roar and howl with tears streaming down his face. He would laugh and laugh until he had no more breath to spare and he was coughing up blood. For what is this if not the greatest jest ever told, to find himself dragged back into the world of the living yet again. How many times is it now? How many times has he succumbed to awaiting darkness only to be pulled to surface like a fish from the depths of the sea?

Too many.

And he does not know whether it is Roman uselessness alone that has him yet standing, or maybe it is the cruelty of the gods that sees it so. Not that it matters; either trait he knows now to be endless in its depth.

There are whispers all around him that speak of hope and deliverance, and he feels pity for those who yet hold on to such things. Do they not still feel the shadow of Rome upon them? Do they not know her hand is not one to offer salvation but suffering and despair?

And as much as Agron cannot explain this sudden action on their captors’ part, he at least knows enough not to take it as a blessing but as the further humiliation it is. This path will not lead them to freedom’s arms but to another prolonged end; there is little doubt they stand now as anything more than a feast for the crows and beasts to feed upon. And the darkness he left behind when first ushered out of Roman camp now follows closer and closer to heel, and he wonders if perhaps this time it will finally take permanent hold.

His steps falter and then, suddenly, he realizes he is not moving any longer.

“Entschuldigung.”

Her apology is nothing more than a strained whisper. She has little strength to speak, so is it any wonder then that she does not have the strength to shoulder Agron’s burden. And Agron does not fault her for her weakness, does not beg her to stay, but lets her go with a simple sigh. And the woman – girl, really – gently brushes a slender hand over Agron’s battered one in wordless parting. And then she is gone. And the darkness closes in.

It is first his legs that give out from under him, and his knees hit the ground with considerable force. But there is hardly any pain left to be felt, he is too tired for that now. And then it is Agron himself who does not have the strength any longer, and the pull of the ground becomes too much for him to resist.

Shakily, he holds out his hands to brace for impact, but then, right as the ground is about to claim him, a tight grip around his arm halts his fall and brings him up to his knees again.

“Agron!”

And now she is back, Agron first thinks in confusion, even if he cannot fathom the reason for her return. But then he quickly realizes his mistake. It cannot be her; the grip is too strong, too tight for her weakened hands. And yet Agron is so sure he knows this woman, knows this voice.

“Schnell! Kommen Sie! Hier! Ich brauche Hilfe! Es ist Agron, er lebt!”

Each cry for help is louder than the other and still Agron does not quite understand, does not quite see. Not until…

“Agron?”

It is the second voice that finally has Agron lift his head, not much – he does not have the strength – but enough. And the other man then brings a hand to his neck to gently hold his chin up and the touch feels oddly warm against Agron’s cold skin. Almost as if it were real.

“We thought you long from this world.”

And it is Spartacus who speaks, who kneels before him; Agron is certain now. Yet he cannot believe his eyes. His ears. How can it be?

“Crassus made deal,” Spartacus says, “to exchange your lives for one of their own. They freed you all.”

And Agron hears the words even if he cannot believe them; still, the man must speak the truth since they are both here.

“You are free now, brother, you yet live,” Spartacus continues in strained voice as he guides Agron’s arm around his shoulder and carefully helps him to move. Slow. One faltering step at a time. “You yet live another day.”

And there is an overwhelming feeling within his chest that rushes to the fore at the words. And of course it is relief, Agron thinks to himself, relief and joy over such a miracle, one he had long since given up on.

_He yet lives._

Relief. It must be.

So, why then, he wonders, does it taste so much like defeat?

  


* * * * *

  


The night closes in around him like a hand around his neck; it is no comforting blanket to cover him in warm embrace, but a cold, constricting force that presses down from every direction, slowly forcing out all air. There are voices all around him, cries of pain and joy alike when hearts are returned to waiting arms, bruised and battered but yet beating. And he loathes himself for the resentment itching under his skin at the sight of the teary reunions. Their happiness is theirs alone, not stolen from him, yet the bitterness hangs on to him like spilled blood clinging to skin.

“Nasir.”

And they may be dear lips that say his name but not the right lips, and the sound of Castus’ voice only deepens the longing within. But Nasir is quick to swallow the bitterness on his tongue, quick to crush the ache and regret yet within chest, and when he turns back to meet a friendly face his own belies nothing but honest inquiry.

A task to fulfill would be a welcome distraction amidst the growing darkness – within as much as without.

But Castus says nothing more and his gaze only shifts to something in the distance after Nasir meets his eye. And the look upon his face is one Nasir does not recognize. There is no urgency or worry behind it, nor is it truly relief; if anything, it brings mind...resignation.

Puzzled, Nasir follows Castus’ line of sight in order to understand, but try as he might, he does not see whatever it is the other man wishes him to see. And Nasir is about to turn to him again and voice his confusion, when suddenly the crowd parts before him and torchlight catches a patch of pale and bruised skin.

Leaning.

Walking.

Stumbling.

Alive.

No.

It cannot be. It is not. Nothing more than an apparition forged before him by vengeful gods.

And he cannot understand the cause for all this heavenly wrath now pissing upon him. He has come to know the gods to be merciless and wicked in their whims, but surely this is a step too far, even for them? What has Nasir ever done to warrant such cruelty? What is this sin he is made to pay with such penance?

But his feet trust his eyes even as Nasir himself refuses to, believe in the miracle Nasir has long since given up on.

And with every step he waits for the vision to disappear in front of his eyes like a mirage that is to vanish the moment he is near enough to reach out and touch. Yet, somehow, the man is still there, casting shadow upon ground when Nasir comes to a halt before him. And Nasir barely notices the bandaged arm Spartacus places over his shoulder, instead raises his own shaky hand upon a bruised cheek.

He runs his thumb gently over coarse stubble, and his legs nearly betray his weight as understanding finally sinks in.

Alive.

And the tears Nasir sees filling Agron’s eyes now soon begin to sting behind his own.

“The gods return you to my arms,” he says finally in greeting. Softly – yet not as to a startled beast, but as to a bird in hand you still fear will fly away from reach.

He hears Agron’s answer, but it comes from afar, the voice nearly drowned out by the pounding in his ears. And for a moment he wonders about this newfound noise clouding his hearing, until he finally understands the cause. It is but his own heart, cut and bruised and trampled upon within his chest, finally beating again.

  


* * * * *

  


“I was a fool,” he says quietly, more to himself than not, though he knows the other man is close enough to hear, “fool to presume this fucking world to offer anything other than failure for an errant soul.”

His eyes are still fixed down on his lap, and he keeps watching the blood slowly seeping through the fresh bandage on his hand, when suddenly a hold on his chin forces him to look up. The fingers grip a little too tight on bruised skin, making him flinch, but the hold remains.

“You were a fool,” Nasir says pointedly, “to presume this world to be yours to face alone.” His eyes shine a little too brightly in the dim candlelight. “A mistake I will not let you repeat.”

Agron groans in frustration, or perhaps it is resignation, he can hardly tell the difference anymore.

“Nasir…”

And the other man sighs deeply and then lets go of his chin with a gentle sweep of fingers and slowly kneels at Agron’s feet.

“You can fight me on this still, if you so must,” he says with a tight smile that does not quite reach his eyes, eyes that are now burning with fire that begins to scald Agron’s skin, “But know that I will never let you fall from my side again. In such a case, I might as well fall myself.”

He draws in another breath, then looks away and rests his head heavily on Agron’s thigh. The unshaven chin scrapes lightly against tender skin. Such a simple touch, yet it suddenly feels like the world.

“Nasir, I…”

But the words stick in his throat when the other man lifts his eyes back to his. The fire is gone, as abruptly as it appeared, replaced by sadness that almost seems bottomless in its depth. And suddenly he looks so young again, even with the exhaustion etched clearly in the dark circles under his eyes, in every line on his forehead, in the paleness of his cheeks. He looks so hurt and haunted, the warrior of but a moment ago now a lost child, and it gnaws on Agron’s insides deeper than any Roman blade ever could.

“Please,” he says, so quietly Agron strains to hear him, “please, never ask me again.”

And Agron thinks there is no might in this world that could keep him from holding the man then, holding him like he always used to, with the hope that his touch would be able to convey all the things his faltering words alone could never do. Even now, after whatever time or distance between them, to reach out and touch, to feel Nasir’s skin under his own is a need as innate in him as drawing breath. Some things, Agron thinks, will never change.

But he is soon to learn that some things have. Beyond all recognition.

For there needs to be no outer might to keep him from Nasir’s side now, it is his own body that fails him in the feat. His strained shoulder refuses to yield and the arm he tries to lift shakes too much to move. And when in last attempt, he holds out his hand to touch the head still resting on his knee, the fingers he intends to card through Nasir’s hair are too stiff and rigid, and the hand quickly drops, useless and lame, back to his side.

And the sound that escapes his throat is something between a strangled cry and a growl, more beast than man. And he averts his eyes in shame and this time there is no fighting the tears that run hot upon his face.

Nasir may look at him still with equal affection as before, speak so easily of value and honor, yet the same words only taste bitter on Agron’s tongue now. _Honor…_ There is no honor in this, only a broken man of less worth than a suckling babe or a fishwife long in years. Nothing more than another burden for the other man to bear, in a world that has forced him to bear too much already.

He hears the shuffle of clothing, the ground scraping beneath the sole of a shoe. And then suddenly there is a shadow in front of him that blocks the dim light, and Agron feels a hand around his wrist, taking hold gently and firmly at once. Wordlessly, Nasir guides Agron’s arm around his waist, holds it there, and then steps closer still between Agron’s thighs, reaching out his other hand to carefully wipe away a stray tear from Agron’s cheek.

He then presses his lips on the same spot, and it is that touch that finally becomes too much, pushes Agron over the ledge he has been standing on, and he has to fight to keep himself grounded. And he pulls Nasir closer to him desperately, with whatever strength he has left, so as to hold himself together and not to shatter into million pieces as he fears he might do soon.

When he next opens his mouth to speak, he half-expects to hear familiar vows of fighting heaven and earth to spill from lips, no matter the reality that will never see him in battle again – against god or man. But then he realizes he has grown tired of gods, has grown tired of cursing them as much as seeking their favor. All the blessings he has in this world stand not beyond the skies or ground but right before his eyes, and it is only Agron himself who now has the power to hold them within reach or cast them out of sight.

“I only wish the best for you, I always have.”

And a ghost of a smile briefly crosses Nasir’s lips as he presses his forehead gently against Agron’s own. “Then never leave my side again.”

Agron shall perhaps never be as sure of himself as Nasir appears to be, and the breach between the man he was and the man he now is still seems too wide to ever close. But it is hard to ignore the warmth of the body now pressing close to his bruised skin and the way it already dulls the sharpest edges of pain. And such comfort is far from earned, Agron knows, when pain stands testament not of victory in battle but of bitter failure in the same. Yet he finds himself unable to refuse what is so freely, so keenly offered, drinking it all in as if a man dying of thirst.

And he would stay here forever, perhaps they both would, but despite such wish the world outside yet keeps turning, and too soon a sudden swell of voices outside has them jolt apart.

“We should move,” Nasir says simply as he draws away from Agron’s arms. Agron can only offer a nod in answer, knowing his voice to betray him with its weakness.

And so, once the other man has deemed Agron’s wounds appropriately redressed for the moment, they finally prepare to leave; and Agron attempts to rise to his feet, though this time with far greater success than before, as he has Nasir there by his side to lean on. And though it is yet difficult for him not to protest to being coddled in such manner, he bites his tongue and makes effort to accept offered aid with what little scrap of dignity he yet has in his possession.

When standing, Agron turns to go, but Nasir halts the action, turning from Agron’s side and reaching for something from the inner corner of the bed.

“The nights are cold still,” he simply explains, and carefully drapes the cloak around Agron’s form.

And though Agron has trouble seeing too clearly with his bruised eyes in such dim lighting, there is no mistaking the familiar weight of the coat now upon his shoulders. He lifts his weary head and catches Nasir’s eye. Tears dried, the man’s gaze holds a different gleam now, warm and tender. A faint smile appears on his lips for the briefest of moments, and then he finally ushers Agron to move and guides the both of them to join the growing flow of people outside on their way to the funeral pyre.

There are no more words broken between them that night. They stand together as promised, drawing comfort and strength from one another in equal measure as the crowd chants Crixus’ name into the heavens and fate begins etching the darkest of days before them. And later, in the dead of night as the camp gradually grows quiet around them, they fall to much needed slumber carefully positioned in each other’s arms; far enough to prevent greater injury to battered flesh yet close enough to begin healing wounds unseen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and line in the summary from the song ‘And All That Could Have Been’ by Nine Inch Nails.
> 
> Translation of Saxa's line in German:  
> “Quick! Come! Here! I need help! It is Agron, he lives!”


	7. Wild Horses Couldn't Drag Me Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know I can't let you slide through my hands.

Every muscle, every tendon, every sinew within him keeps protesting even the slightest of movements, his body yet little more than a cumbersome weight that he has to drag along with every step that he takes. And still he moves, never one to surrender, doing his best to brush off the curious looks and whispers behind his back and make the needed way across the bustling campsite.

And he can hear the insistent footsteps that follow his own on the sand but tries to ignore them as long as he is able. Yet, finally, the irritation becomes too much to hold back, and he is forced to stop on his feet.

“I am not to take one fucking step any longer without you holding hand?” he snaps over his shoulder. But the poison on his tongue disappears the moment the words leave his lips, and just as quickly he feels shrinking into himself. His mind failing him now along with his body.

Somehow, he had imagined that his inability to any longer draw weapon would have resulted in quelling his temper, but it only seems that the opposite is true. He feels as if a caged beast, yet not shackled by chains and irons but by his own weakened flesh.

And it is never his meaning to direct angry words to one least deserving of them, it merely happens so easily because the other man is always  _there._

“Nasir, I did not–”

“Rather you cast your ire at me than unsuspecting children. If you must.”

The scene from that morning flashes in front of Agron’s eyes and he nearly feels embarrassed now under Nasir’s scolding stare, drawing in a shaky breath and casting stubborn eyes to the ground, petulantly, as if a mere boy himself.

“It will not happen again.”

But to Agron’s surprise, the other man only huffs an airy little laugh at that – a cherished sound Agron has been too certain for too long never to hear again – and grabs his arm.

“I would not have you make promises you cannot keep. Come. Spartacus yet stands waiting.”

Fortunately the distance yet to travel to their leader's tent is relatively short and even in ground, and it does not take them long until Agron is already pushing past the cloth hanging over the doorway yet shielding Spartacus from sight.

“You wished to have words.”

He watches the man inside turn abruptly at the sound of his voice, surprise evident on his face.

“Agron,” Spartacus says and his lips lift to a relieved smile, yet there is a strain to his eyes and voice that never quite leaves them. “You did not need to make your way here,” he continues, concern forever present in his frown, though Agron is now beginning to doubt it is there for his benefit only, “I would have come to see you myself.”

“My legs still work, Spartacus,” he replies, and there is something oddly comforting in the familiar look he now receives at the tone, and he cannot help but give an even wryer look in return. “Mostly.”

An ocean of things left unsaid pass between them then, the noise of the sudden silence nearly deafening in its loudness.

“Then it is a blessing to see you this well and on your feet so soon,” Spartacus says, once he finally finds his voice again.

Agron nods curtly in agreement. “Yet you did not wish to see me only to have words over my health.”

“No, I did not.” 

It is not the first time they have spoken after his return, and Agron had thought that perhaps they were to now continue to share words over what little of use Agron had learned while held captive in Roman camp. But it seems that is not to be the case either.

“What would you have me do?”

Spartacus assesses him wordlessly for a long moment, and Agron fights to keep his shoulders squared and not flinch under such stare. Finally, the man's gaze drops down to his bandaged hands.

“What _can_ you do?”

Agron stays still as words escape him, and silence once more stretches between them as Spartacus’ stare turns into a frown.

“You have barely returned from death’s door. I would not ask you to take on task you are yet unable to fill.”

And Agron looks down at his battered body, stares at his useless hands and stiffly flexes the fingers that yet barely move. He feels the shame of failure, past and present, in every bruise and scar upon his skin, yet tamps down the ever-present dread within and tries on as confident a voice as he can muster.

“It may take some time, but–”

“Yet I fear time is not on our side, Agron,” Spartacus interrupts and pushes himself off the table he was leaning against and turns around. “Here. I would have you see this.”

Agron walks to the table with hesitant step and then peers over Spartacus’ shoulder at the familiar map laid over its surface.

“This is where we stand now,” the other man begins, pointing at the map with the blade of his dagger, “With Crassus to the south of us and Pompey gaining ground from the west.”

Agron nods along as he keeps making sense of the squiggly marks drawn on the thick paper, reading the familiar names of cities and lands and following the tip of the blade as Spartacus draws a line across the map to the northeast.

“It should take no more than two days and nights to reach the mountains by foot. Less than that if it is possible to keep to the main pass without Roman interference. Then...”

“Why are you telling me this?” Agron asks, cutting the other man off abruptly. Yet he fears he already knows the answer. Has known it all along – they both have.

Spartacus sighs and slowly places the knife down on the table before turning around so that the two of them come face to face once more.

“You are no foot soldier, Agron, you are a general of this rebellion. I cannot have you join the battle with no proper means to defend yourself, you must understand that. You would be struck down with first attack.”

There is solid truth in the words, yet there is one truth that stands even greater.

“And what fucking general would abandon his men and flee from battle like a scared child?”

“One that will heed my word.”

Their stare holds and the resolve behind Spartacus’ eyes is unwavering. And Agron knows he is not to win this fight any more than any other.

Spartacus takes the map from the table and rolls it up and holds it out for Agron to take. Instinctively, Agron reaches out his hand, but the scroll quickly slips from his loose grip and falls down on the ground, leaving the two men staring silently after its travel. It takes Spartacus another moment, before he picks the scroll up again with a deep sigh and then places his free hand lightly on Agron's shoulder.

There is pity in that gesture that burns a hole through his skin, and Agron keeps his eyes on the ground, understanding that at that moment he is fearing the look on Spartacus' face more than he has ever feared anything in his blood-filled life, be it a fist or a dagger or a Roman sword.

“Perhaps you will yet heal enough in time,” the other man says evenly as he guides Agron towards the doorway, “but in case you do not...” 

They find Nasir standing in wait outside the tent and Spartacus wordlessly hands him the map to take. The Syrian frowns, yet accepts the offered scroll without further question.

“Learn all the routes by heart, would it come to pass that you need to take them,” Spartacus continues, hand still lingering upon Agron’s shoulder, “It would ease mind to know a proved man will help lead my people to promised freedom. There are few I would better trust in task.” And then he is already walking away, before Agron has a chance to say anything in reply.

“He would have you take to the mountains?” Nasir’s eyes travel from Spartacus’ receding frame to the map in his hands before finally settling back on Agron’s face.

And Agron lets out the breath he has been holding. But he does not answer, only turns stiffly back towards their tent.

“Agron...”

The footsteps behind him persist and finally Agron looks over his shoulder, sensing a familiar scowl threatening his brow.

“I would have thought you had tasks to fulfill. It is the middle of the day.”

“They can wait,” Nasir says, reaching his side and matching his stride. “I would rather you tell me of Spartacus’ plan.”

“You know his plan,” Agron says, more curtly than he intended.

“To reach the mountains, lead the people through Rhaetia and continue in the northeast, to lands yet free from Roman rule.”

“Yes.”

“To lands east of the Rhine.”

“Yes.”

“And you will go?”

“Do I hold any fucking choice?”

Agron hastens his feet as much as his aching body allows, never noticing the way Nasir now falls out of step with him. Never seeing the look in the eyes left staring after his slowly retreating back.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


“I bear good news. The women were making fresh stew, and I found...” 

Nasir's steps falter along with his voice as he makes it across the tent doorway and finds no one inside.

“Agron?”

He keeps standing in place for a heartbeat longer, looking around stupidly as if the man in question were hiding in the folds of the tent cover or under the bed.

He is not.

Nor is Agron found at the nearest fire. Or with Lugo. Saxa has not seen him, neither has Widald. The hour has grown long and Nasir learns that Spartacus has already retreated back to his tent for a moment's rest. Gannicus sits in Sibyl's company. Nasir passes a lone Naevia upon his search, can even make out Castus’ familiar figure higher up the hill standing guard; yet of all the people in this camp, Agron is nowhere to be found.

And Nasir cannot understand how a man of such giant frame can disappear like this. And so quickly? When Nasir knows Agron can yet barely walk two steps to take a piss without someone to lean on.

And despite Nasir’s best effort to quell the storm rising within, fear finds its way inside unannounced and uninvited. Visions of his heart lying lifeless upon ground, bleeding and left to die refuse to leave his mind now that they have taken residence there.

He makes his way from one end of the camp to the other, stopping only as the granite walls cut his path in the east. He leans against the rocks, catching his breath and steadying his racing heart, realizing belatedly that he must have been running the last of the way there.

The sky is cloudy and the closest torchlight stands some way away, so he nearly misses the lone figure sitting in the dark at the edge of the cliff. But thankfully for Nasir, even the longest of shadows are not enough to swallow a man of this stature whole.

Relief washes over him in one giant wave as recognition hits, but the reprieve is short in duration, and all too soon Nasir can feel hurt and anger simmering anew beneath his skin. The cuts that he bears are still too raw, and this night has only helped rub further salt into the wounds.

And for a brief moment, he contemplates simply turning on his heels and leaving the man alone. Clearly the solitude is much sought after, at least more sought after than Nasir's company, it seems. But the basic need to be reassured of mere existence is too great to deny, even if he now fears confrontation and the harsh words that are far too ready upon his tongue.

Not wishing to startle the man off the ledge, he slows down his steps the closer he gets, but he can soon see from the line of Agron's shoulders that his arrival is hardly news to the bigger man. He draws in one last deep breath before closing the remaining distance between them.

“I already feared you had fallen to your death when I failed to find you.”

“Yet gods show no such fucking favor.”

Fire and venom are nothing new when it comes to Agron, they are part of the whole as the grooves in his cheeks or the lines around his eyes when he smiles – if he smiles. Yet never has Nasir heard such careless words fall from familiar lips, and it startles him to the core. The German is and has been many things, but not one to give up without a fight. Not one to give up at all.

In his confusion, Nasir reaches out a hand to grab bare shoulder and opens his mouth to speak, but Agron is quicker and shakes his head to stop him.

“Ignore me,” he says, “The morrow shall find me yet drawing breath along with the rest of us.” Errant motes of soot cling to his skin and he wipes them into the bandage on his hand. 

“The _last_ of us.”

“Agron...”

But the man does not give him chance to continue. “I fear I shall not be of use for you or anyone this night,” he says evenly, eyes stubbornly fixed on the vast darkness before them, “You would do well to find yourself in more amicable company.”

Frustration once more burning hot under his skin, Nasir digs his nails deeper in the man's shoulder and with grim satisfaction watches the other man flinching under the hardening grip.

“Ag–”

“There is enough weight for all of us to carry as it is. I would not fault you for seeking out someone to lighten the burden for a moment rather than add to it. ”

And try as he might – and he does try – Nasir cannot find resentment or jealousy in Agron’s voice now, only raw honesty. And he nods in agreement but still makes no effort to move.

“If you wish to be absent my company, then I will go,” he says, “but only then. It is your choice.” 

He feels Agron’s shoulders rise and fall under his palm as the man draws in a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. Silence hangs heavy in the air for a moment, and then Agron leans back against Nasir's legs and tilts his head until he is able to catch Nasir's eye.

“Stay.”

Without further word, Nasir clambers down to sit on the ledge beside him.

“Know that I would still rather see you at rest in our tent than out here in the cold.”

“I have slept all day. How much more rest does a man need?”

Nasir opens his mouth to offer further argument to plead his case but then closes it just as swiftly. Instead, he reaches out and tugs at the cloak hanging too loosely around Agron’s shoulders.

“At least close up your coat. The night will only grow colder.”

Agron swats the hands away with a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes. And the familiarity of the gesture hits Nasir suddenly like a kick to the gut. It is as if the man Agron was, the man Nasir knew, is yet back only in these small morsels, in breadcrumbs thrown haphazardly upon ground for Nasir to find.

“How can there fit so much worry in such a small man is forever a mystery to me.”

Nasir hisses at the passing comment on his stature but for once decides to let it go in order to concentrate on a more pressing concern.

“Would you not act the same were you standing in my place?” he begins to ask but then halts his tongue mid-way. “No, you would be worse, would you not?” 

He is hardly surprised when Agron offers no protest.

“If it were me that sat here cut and beaten and tortured to a hair’s width of my life and not you, what would _you_ say then? What would you do to–”

But that is when he is finally cut off by Agron who shifts in his seat and does his best to turn away from him and turn his gaze back into the distance. “Please, do not...”

But Nasir allows the man little reprieve, scowling as he grabs Agron’s arm, barely able to resist the urge to shake the man in his growing irritation.

“The mere _thought_ has you coiling from your seat as if burned, yet you expect me not to worry. You expect me to go and seek others _now_ when I fucking have you here and...” He stops the tirade abruptly and draws in a long breath trying to calm the storm rushing in his veins and pounding in his ears. 

“Apologies,” he says finally, loosening his grip on Agron as his lips curl into a tired smile, “perhaps it is me who is not good company this night, after all.”

“Perhaps we are as bad as each other.”

There is something not quite right in Agron’s tone, and Nasir looks up to catch the man’s eye. And when he does, he finds his estimate true. Something is not quite right, for he finds Agron smiling – it is a frail creature and barely there but, nevertheless,  _there_ . And Nasir is about to comment on such oddity, but then decides against the words. If he has learned anything in this life by now, it is to count his blessings, not question them.

And so he only picks another crumb off the ground and tucks it away for safekeeping, wondering briefly if perhaps in time he will have picked up enough of them to build the man together again. Perhaps.

In time. If only they were awarded such luxury.

Despite the growing chill in the air, or maybe because of it, Agron feels warm when Nasir rests himself against his side. He tilts his head to follow the man's line of sight beyond the sprawling campsite, beyond the valleys and hills that span before them.

And perhaps it is but the howling wind, yet for a moment Nasir thinks he can almost hear the wail of war horns in the distance and feel the ground beneath them shake under marching feet of Roman legions. The visions now in front of his eyes send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his fists by his side without thinking.

There is not enough blood left to spill in this world to count for all the suffering caused.

Bile rises in his throat at the thought, but Nasir also knows that, strangely enough, it is that very same truth that will make it easier for him to walk away from this cursed land and the promise of vengeance, when that day comes and they are to take to the mountains. No amount of blood on his hands would be enough now. So does it matter if there shall be none at all?

“The stew will have grown cold by now,” he says absentmindedly, burrowing himself further in the crook of Agron's arm.

“Stew?”

“I was bringing you some earlier but then found you gone from our tent. I doubt it will have kept warm all this time.”

“Cold stew,” Agron muses out loud, his chin now resting atop Nasir's head, “A most unfortunate thing, I have been told.”

It is hazy at best, a stolen moment from a lifetime ago, yet Nasir finds himself smiling briefly at the memory, almost despite himself.

“A fate worse than death,” he agrees and hums quietly along while his fingers play abstractly with the hair on Agron's thigh. Neither of them makes attempt to move. “But it will have to do now.”

“Then so it shall.”

And Nasir attempts to focus his gaze back on the darkened horizon but quickly finds that the silhouette of growing hills faraway in the distance offers little reprieve from returning dark thoughts, perhaps even less so.

For promised freedom beyond Rome's borders may very well come with too grave a price, he now fears. Having his honor stripped away from him by enemy hands is burden enough for Agron to bear, but Nasir knows that it is the guilt over abandoning Spartacus to this war that will rest heaviest on his shoulders. It will kill him on the inside, perhaps more slowly than a Roman sword yet just as surely. And Nasir wishes he held the power to change such outcome but fears there are some wounds that cannot be healed, some gaps even deepest devotion cannot breach. Nasir can kill for this man, even die for him, but he cannot  _live_ for him. It is the one burden each man is to carry on his own.

That is when, suddenly, he feels a press of lips against the crown of his head. Taken aback, he turns to look up at the other man who is still wearing the same worn-out smile, though it no longer quite reaches his eyes.

And Agron does not ask and Nasir does not answer, yet somehow it seems they both hear one another much the same.

“Perhaps...” Agron starts and turns his gaze back to the overcast night sky, “Perhaps, had I been a different man...”

Nasir holds his breath for a heartbeat, mulling over the words. A different man? A man better equipped to compromise? A man willing to listen to reason? A man of lesser temper and yielding mind? A man weaker in his loyalty, in his conviction and passion?

A  _different_ man? 

Maybe. And yet...

He sighs and leans back into the crook of the arm offered to him, lips skimming the skin at the hollow of Agron’s throat.

“Yet I would not wish for such a thing.”

A sudden huff of hot air tickles his skin.

“I never took you for a fool before.”

“No man is without fault,” he answers evenly, “not even I.”

“And this fault you hold is...me?”

“Do you know of any other?”

This time, the sound of chuckling by his ear is unmistakable, accompanied by a muttered curse at Nasir's countrymen. And Nasir hides his own smile in Agron’s skin as he feels an arm close around him, nose pressing in his hair.

“Your presence at side has been sorely missed.”

“So sorely that you ran to the other end of the world to get away from reach?”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

He feels another kiss being pressed upon his brow. A rare moment of calm amidst the storm raging around them.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


  
  


The few meager pieces of wood fall to the ground as he is forced to double over, instinctively grabbing his side when the searing pain splits through him as if that cursed Roman blade itself. And when he slowly eases himself upright again and glances down to his hand, it is hardly a surprise to see the blood now coating his fingers.

Agron stares at the widening dark stain on his side for a moment and sighs, yet the sight of spilled blood or even the throbbing pain are the least of his concerns. A blade to slice his gut would be but a feather’s touch compared to lover’s scorn if he were to be found out like this.

And he knows he will never be able to replace the bandage on his own, and so he hastens his yet unsteady step and hopes to make his way to the medicus or to some other helpful soul sympathetic to his plight, before Nasir is to catch sight of him.

Yet he has barely made it halfway through the camp when he sees a familiar form standing in the middle of his path and curses to himself at his misfortune. The other man seems deep in conversation, yet – as fates would have it – looks up precisely at the right time, before Agron has had chance to find alternative route, and their eyes meet across the sand covered ground. And Agron knows hiding is more than useless at this point, but he quickly turns on his feet nevertheless, hoping that he might reach their tent and cover the tracks of his earlier misdeed somehow, with sheet or cloak, before being caught out.

“Agron...”

He pretends not to hear and continues his march, destination nearly within reach.

“Agron, please...”

The voice is too desperate and the footsteps behind him too fast, sounding almost as if the other man were running, and with a deep, resigned sigh, Agron stops and slowly turns around, bracing for the tidal wave of scold and worry. But he has to blink in confusion when the familiar face now in front of him shows no sign of reproach, only...

Irritation? Anger? Guilt?

And he understands they have spent much time apart in recent memory, yet has it truly been so long that he does not know how to read the other man at all? And so, with his instincts failing him so badly, he thinks it only best to approach gently.

“Nasir, it is not–”

“You mistake intent,” the other man interrupts quickly, sounding out of breath, desperation and annoyance oscillating behind his eyes. And Agron only grows more confused and then tries again.

“Nasir...” But it only seems to open the dam, flooding him in a wash of words.

“It is not what you think. Not now not ever. Fuck, Agron, you should know better by now. Agron, you should fucking _know_...And there are tasks to complete and I must share words when needed. I cannot forever hold tongue or shy away from a friendly face in fear that you...”

It feels as if a wall of words was crashing down on him, and Agron keeps standing in place, rooted at the spot by sheer bafflement as Nasir keeps tying his tongue to knots before him. And finally, Agron simply cannot take it any longer and places a hand upon the man’s shoulder to interrupt him.

“Pause and draw in breath before you lose all air,” he says and narrows his eyes the best he can under bruised brow. “And speak plainly, for you are yet to make any fucking sense. Why am I to care if you are sharing words?”

And this time it is Nasir’s turn to stare back wide-eyed and stunned to silence.

“But...” he finally stammers out, “Are you not...but...Castus...”

It seems they are only sailing further into deep abyss, and Agron has long since lost the steer of the helm.

“What of him?” And he can only assume madness has taken hold of beloved mind. Or maybe Agron’s own. Were they not supposed to be breaking words over his newly opened wound? How did they suddenly end up with the damned Cilician as topic of conversation?

And that is when Nasir instinctively looks over his shoulder, and when Agron follows his line of sight, he sees the familiar dark-skinned figure standing by one of the tents a little further down the path. Roughly at the spot Nasir himself was standing not too long ago.

Agron’s gaze quickly travels back to the far more agreeable face before him, and he sees the worry lines forming between Nasir’s brows, sees the stubborn tilt of his chin and the way his nose now is scrunched up in badly veiled irritation. The man looks as if bracing for a fight, and as inappropriate as it may be in the circumstances, Agron cannot help but smile.

This at least he knows. And this, at least, is a question he has an answer for.

“ _You_ mistake intent,” he begins and instinctively goes to squeeze the shoulder under his palm. 

But the attempt is quickly thwarted by the injury he never seems to quite remember until the very last moment. Yet this time, it is not merely the lame hand that has him grit his teeth and grunt out a curse-laden apology, but the bloody print his fingers leave on exposed skin. And he is quick to pull away, but Nasir is quicker, grabbing the hand in mid-air.

“You are bleeding.” His dark eyes darken further as he takes in the fresh blood stains on Agron’s hand and Agron sighs, defeated once more.

“Not there,” he grudgingly corrects him, guiding Nasir’s eyes to the real concern along his side. And the dark in the Syrian’s eyes quickly turns blacker than night.

“How did this come to–”

“I may have attempted task yet beyond my reach,” Agron says cautiously, and there is nothing confusing any longer in the look he receives from Nasir now.

“Why would you...” The man's voice trails off and he lets out a noise that is a groan and a hiss and a sigh all in one. “Spilling Roman blood is not enough anymore, so now you must attempt to fucking spill your own as well?”

“I would have spared you needless upset and sought aid elsewhere,” Agron says, cringing at the weakness in his voice, at the pleading tone that forever lurks underneath all his bluster in the Syrian’s presence. “It was not meaning for you to catch me here.”

Nasir’s head snaps up at the words, and that is when Agron finally sees understanding slowly dawning behind his eyes, softening the hard edges of anger yet buried within.

“And so you turned from me to keep yourself from sight.” 

“Yes.”

Teeth peek out from between lips, biting the fringes of a threatening smile. “Not because of...”

“No.”

The huff of air that leaves him is not quite a laugh yet almost there, and Agron sees the tension leaving his shoulders, as if an invisible weight were lifted off his back. And Agron is glad, glad that at least there still is this that he can give. If nothing else.

“But now that you _are_ here, will you offer aid in this.”

The other man peers back down at the bloodied bandage, assessing the damage, and then gently presses his palm against the edge of the wound, making Agron hiss in pain. He gives a long sigh and snakes his arm gingerly around Agron’s frame to steady his step as he ushers him to move and continue the way towards their tent.

“You must cease this foolishness, Agron,” he says as they cross the doorway. “We shall soon run out of cloth to wrap around you.”

Despite the blood and pain and further wounded pride, there is still comfort in the warmth of a familiar body pressed against his own. And Agron brushes his useless fingers over the ones now curling around his hip and finds another smile suddenly pulling his lips that he hides in the waves of raven hair.

“Then perhaps I shall make do with your arms.”

But it seems the other man is not so easily amused and only pushes Agron’s head away and guides him to sit down with determined hand, frown upon his face. “You will do no such thing.”

Helpless in the face of a greater might, Agron rests his weary bulk heavily on the bed, wincing at the daggers of pain shooting in his middle. And then finally the Syrian shows mercy, stepping between Agron's thighs, cradling his head in his hands and placing a kiss upon his brow.

“Control your cock,” he says softly, carding fingers through Agron's hair, “As I do mine. The only blood I wish to spill is that of Romans and theirs alone. I shall not be named the cause of your untimely demise.”

“Bold words,” Agron murmurs, resting his forehead heavily on Nasir’s chest with a resigned sigh. “I do not recall your cock to hold such powers before.” 

The slap across the back of his head is sudden and far from gentle, making him hiss in pain, but Nasir only sneers at his discomfort.

“Fucking German.”

“Yet apparently not,” he mutters, burying his face further in Nasir’s skin, feeling the gentle shake of his chest as the other man begins to chuckle.

“Later, Agron,” Nasir says, pressing a last kiss upon Agron’s hairline before setting seasoned fingers to task to remove soiled bandages and replace them with ones slightly less so. 

And they both choose to ignore the gnawing feeling within that such promises of  _later_ may never come to pass the way things stand now, when today is all any of them have to hold on to.

“We spoke of strategy,” Nasir says after a long moment of working in silence, making Agron raise his head and eyebrows in wordless question. “Castus and I,” the man continues to explain and quickly lowers his eyes back to task at hand. “Spartacus has asked me to lead one of the coming strikes and I will need trusted men at my side to complete mission.”

And for a brief moment Agron finds himself in yet another tangle of conflicting emotions, his heart momentarily both swelling with pride and shriveling in bitter regret. And there is a sliver of jealousy that remains – and of course it does, he may be a changed man in many regard, but still just a man. Yet he leaves his misgivings over the Cilician's fighting prowess upon his tongue and forces on a smile instead.

“So, tell me of your plan then.”

Nasir turns still and silent for a heartbeat, frowning. It seems clear he is seeing through Agron's attempt at lightness, and that only means Agron must try harder.

“Unless you think me Roman spy?”

“You truly wish to hear?”

“How else am I to tell you how to improve poor strategy?”

And he braces for another smack upside the head, but Nasir’s frown only melts into a smile.

“Bold words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and the line in the summary from the song ‘Wild Horses’ by The Rolling Stones.


	8. Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But these cuts I have, oh they need love to help them heal.

Nasir sits on the bed and looks at the other man sleeping there. And his hand itches to touch, as if still needing tangible proof that Agron truly is within its reach, but Nasir stills himself and absentmindedly fiddles with the bedding instead. The nights have proven difficult for the other man, and so any moment that finds him at rest this way should not be wasted because of childish bouts of insecurity.

There is barely any light outside yet, and so Nasir finds himself sitting awake in the darkness. And though the absence of light may be a good thing in terms of Agron’s sleep, it is not necessarily such for Nasir. For it is in the shadows that idle thoughts lie in wait.

At first, only the knowledge of having Agron back in his arms was enough to bring him peace, more than enough. Or so he thought. But somehow the bitter sting of an empty bed too big and cold beside him still lingers, even if now that very same bed is filled to the brim with familiar hulking form and warm flesh. And as hard as Nasir tries to find his way back into the light, the weeks past cast long shadows that yet lick his skin.

Gingerly, he moves from his seat and sits down on the cold ground instead, resting his back against the makeshift bedframe. He can hear Agron’s steady breathing in the darkness and resigns to the knowledge that it is all the comfort he has for now. It will have to do.

He lets his head fall back and closes his tired eyes, but soon a sudden drop of rain upon his skin has him jolting awake. He wipes the wetness from his brow with a sigh before peering up into darkening sky above him.

_The clouds are yet hanging heavy overhead, and then, what began as a drizzle quickly turns into downpour, and all he can do is to lean back further against solid wall, seeking what shelter he can under narrow gateway arc. Lightning strike splits the sky behind rolling hills and thunder rumbles, its growl low and dangerous as it travels across the distance towards him._

_And Nasir can only wonder what has angered the gods so this day to put on such a display of heavenly might, and pray to find their displeasure fleeting._

_But it is the sudden appearance of dark silhouettes from behind the faraway bend that quickly guides mind to more mortal concerns. He straightens his back and widens his stance, hand grasping the hilt of his sword, while he does his best to better see beyond the veil of water before his eyes._

“ _Four men advance!” someone yells above him, and he can hear sand rustling under feet as the warning brings a flurry of action upon the courtyard behind him._

_But it does not take Nasir long to pick out a most familiar form among those approaching, his head held high above the others'. And Nasir lets out a sigh of relief, loosening his death grip upon weapon and running the freed hand over wet face instead, brushing hair away from eyes in bridled anticipation._

_The returning rebels cover the remaining distance with surprising haste, tired limbs clearly spurred on by the threat of sky falling upon their heads. Some words are shared in greeting, but the men quickly pass Nasir's post and disappear through the gate in search of drier weather and the promise of a hot meal. Yet one stays behind in the cold, leaning his long body leisurely against the wall, grin stretching lips, as if he were but standing upon sun kissed field and not in bone soaking rain._

“ _You took your time,” Nasir says in greeting, biting the side of his mouth to keep himself from smiling all too widely, “You left for mission when sun barely had peeked over hill.”_

_The other man narrows green eyes. “And even then you already stood guard.”_

_Nasir only shrugs at the gentle scold in Agron's voice. Then hand stained in grime and blood lifts to tuck away a wet lock curling upon cheek, and despite his best resolve, Nasir cannot help but lean into the touch._

“ _I fear you would grow root upon that fucking wall if given opportunity,” the German continues with an exasperated sigh. Yet such castigation does not seem fair, when they both know the gladiator himself is hardly one to shy away from given task. And Nasir sighs in return._

“ _I would only do my share.”_

“ _You would do much more, at least if I were not here to drag you away to find a moment's rest.”_

“ _Drag me away?” He raises an eyebrow in sudden amusement. “And how do you expect to manage this feat?”_

_But the question has barely left his lips when it is already utterly and bitterly regretted. And now Nasir is left helplessly watching as the grin upon Agron's face only turns dirtier still._

“ _It is a blessing you are small enough to throw over shoulder.”_

_The daggers his eyes shoot Agron's way barely tickle weather-worn skin, and two arms only come to cage him further between flesh and wall before he has time to attempt escape._

“ _My feet leave fucking ground, and you will find yourself at the end of my sword,” is all he has time to spit out before mouth is claimed in a kiss that is nearly enough to lift soles from sand of their own volition._

_Yet his feet stay where they stand. And then Agron grudgingly peels his lips away, leaving behind a faint taste of copper upon Nasir's tongue._

“ _I shall go find roof over head and long-missed food in hand,” the man says slowly, pulling further away from reach, forcing Nasir to find support from the wall when legs threaten to give out from under him, “I would see you follow lead.”_

_Another smile tugs at the corners of Nasir's mouth then, and he runs his hand down solid chest slick with rain and watered blood and then tugs at leather chords around neck to keep the other man yet in place._

“ _You give command?”_

_A sweep of thumb along neck. A quick press of lips against his own. A shake of head._

“ _Your feet, your choice, Nasir.”_

The breath ghosting warm upon his face disappears along with the man, and shoulders are freed from under the weight of soaked cloak. And the thrum of pouring rain turns into morning bird’s song in his ear. Yet a thought remains.

His feet. His choice.

Is it not only fair then that the same were true for Agron's feet as well?

The faint glow of the early morning sun flashes through a gap in the tent cover, and Nasir rises from his seat. He rolls his shoulders and then leans down and gently brushes a hand over broad back yet riddled with angry red marks. Agron stirs, but Nasir’s familiar touch stills him quickly, before the man has a chance to pull a strained muscle with sudden movement.

“I shall not be long.”

The other man mumbles something in return, still half-way between this world and slumber, and Nasir leaves him to his rest.

He walks outside and greets the dawning day and the slowly waking camp before him with determined eyes. He starts to make his way across the campsite, bidding good morning to those he meets in passing, but he does not linger. There is only one man whose company he seeks now.

And finally, his gaze falls upon a familiar figure and he hastens his step.

“Icorix!”

The young man turns around quickly, and once his eyes find Nasir, he gives him a wide smile that makes the hardened scar running across his face twitch slightly. Then he quickly hobbles over, surprisingly agile considering the fact that he is missing a good part of his left leg.

“Nasir!” His greeting is as cheery as it always is, no matter the circumstances, and his smile only seems to widen even more once the two of them are face to face. “What owes me this pleasure at such early hour?”

“I seek counsel,” Nasir says and then continues to explain his thoughts in more detail, while Icorix keeps listening intently. 

The boy may barely grow beard, but he rubs his chin all the same in contemplation a good while after Nasir has finished.

“An intriguing task.”

“But can it be done?”

And then Icorix responds with a grin. “With your head and my good looks,” he says and clasps Nasir’s shoulder, “we shall accomplish anything.”

And Nasir swallows down the sudden tightness closing on his throat and holds his chin up, forcing on a smile of his own. The hesitation is there but a moment.

“Then let us get to work.”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


_He is running, running as fast as his shaky legs allow him. The air, heavy with smoke and the smell of burning flesh, catches in his throat and stings in his chest as he fights to draw breath. His father’s sword feels so strange and heavy in his hand, and he almost stumbles over the blade. But at the very last moment he finds his footing, and then he is running. Running again. Always running._

Agron is awakened with a start, gasping for breath as if the smoke-filled air yet lingered within the tent walls. He blinks in the darkness, trying to get his bearings, but the ghosts yet stand guard by his bed, refusing to leave him be.

“ _We need to go, before they reach us.”_

“ _Yes, Agron, you do.”_

“ _I will not go without you.”_

_Her grip on his arm is so tight it brings water to his eyes, but it is his uncle's stare boring in the back of his skull that has him quickly swallow down the tears._

“ _I could never travel with enough haste the way I stand,” she says, one hand brushing absently over her extended belly, “You will go with your brother.”_

“ _Mother, I will not–”_

_She cuts him off with a strike across the face, hard enough that he would have lost his balance were it not for the hold she yet has on his arm._

“ _You will go with your brother,” she repeats, as if he never spoke up at all. And there is something behind her eyes now that Agron does not recognize; it looks so much akin to fear, yet he knows it cannot be that. His mother is not one to fear anything._

“ _I trust you to be his keeper, Agron, from this day forth. Wherever you go, he goes. You will breathe and live as one, do you understand me?”_

_And Agron is about to answer, when the sound of horses neighing outside has them all look towards the front door._

“ _Go now!” The tone of her voice brooks no argument, its edge as sharp as the blade of her sword that has already found its way in her hand._

_Agron pushes his brother out the small back window then throws his father’s heavy sword after him before climbing out himself. One last time, he turns back to look at their home – more hut than house – but it is the sound of raised voices and splintering wood that has him find his feet again. He drags his brother by the hand towards the woods and then he is running again._

_Always running._

With some effort, Agron sits up on the bed, rubbing the side of his arm against his eyes in frustration. He then does his best to peer into the near-pitch-darkness of the tent, trying to seek another presence beside him, but there is no one else there, only him and the bleak company of voices from days gone past.

But as he lets his eyes sweep his surroundings, he does catch one familiar shape in the dim light, leaning against the farthest corner of the tent. Agron knows Nasir has secretly done his best to keep such things away from sight, but it seems he has left this behind in his haste to prepare for night’s mission. The blade catches the light of the sole candle, and it is an all too familiar ache that fills Agron’s chest then.

_He quickly jumps out of the way of the wildly swinging sword and shakes his head in frustration._

“ _Idiot,” he chides and grasps the weapon away from his brother the moment he deems it safe for his fingers to do so, “you will cut your fucking leg off if you wield it thus.”_

“ _Then teach me.”_

_Agron cannot do much else but to roll his eyes in exasperation. Where his brother got all this stubbornness from he will never know. “We spoke of this,” he answers curtly, “you are too little and the sword is too heavy.” He watches the boy's face falling further at the words and curses to himself for he knows what is to follow._

“ _Go find something lighter and perhaps we can train a while before meal,” he offers then as compromise, but it does not seem to yield intended result._

“ _Agron...”_

_He follows Duro’s line of sight to the men sitting close-by around the fire and knows his brother’s intent even if no words pass between them. Despite the fact that Agron barely is two summers older than his brother, he now stands head and shoulders taller and closer in height to the men around them, making him suddenly appear older than his years. And the other fighters may not yet hold him in much regard, but at least he is welcomed among them; whereas Duro, thin and gangly still, is seen as nothing more than a suckling child, not even worth the time and effort to properly train._

“ _Fucking sword bait,” someone croaks out with a dirty laugh, and the voice rings in Agron's ears as his gaze returns to his brother’s now crimson face before dropping down to the weapon in hand. And then with a deep sigh, he flips the sword around and wordlessly holds it out for Duro to take, wilfully ignoring the grin that now threatens to split his brother’s face._

“ _Take position...no, not like that. Spread your feet or you will fall before you begin. Oh, fuck the gods, like_ _ **this**_ _.”_

“ _Stop kicking me!”_

“ _Then fucking stand straight, you ass.”_

“ _I fucking am._ _ **You**_ _ass.”_

“ _You do not know how to even bite yet, so cease barking, you little git. Now, try again.”_

Agron shakes his head in attempt to at last shake off these idle thoughts and rid himself of ghosts already left behind long ago. It seems all he knows now are sacrifices made by other hands, either those made in the past by kin and kind or those yet to be made in the days to come. The debt owed has always been too great to repay, and it is a bitter knowledge to hold that now he has lost all means to ever even attempt such a feat.

The steel in the corner yet stands tall, calling him, mocking him; and Agron takes to his feet and steps closer and closer still, until he is close enough to reach and touch. And his hand hovers over the weapon for a moment, and he is unsure of what to do, unsure whether he wishes to know for certain or not.

But whatever else Agron may be, a coward he is not, and so he draws a deep breath and closes his eyes and takes the sword in his bandaged hand. And then for a moment, a blink of an eye, his fingers start to curl around the hilt and he almost, almost, thinks he might be able to do it, after all. Almost.

But it is not to be, of course it is not. The badly healing wound cuts open, and he can feel the heat of the fresh blood that spills into the ragged cloth over his palm as his weak fingers lose their grip. And the sword clatters noisily onto the ground.

And it is as if the nails dug through his flesh all over again, and all he can hear then is Caesar’s taunting voice filling his ears. He takes a few steadying steps, but it is hard to find the ground beneath him, and then the tent becomes too small, its walls pressing down on him from every direction.

With little regard to his surroundings in his sudden need for air, he charges outside, and in doing so, manages to walk straight into someone, sending the person landing flat on their back in the sand. There is a muted thump as the body hits the ground and then a slightly clearer sound of wood snapping in half. And Agron frowns in irritation, looking down to see who it is that has dared to step in his path in such way.

The young man on the ground lifts himself on his elbows and then sits up, dusting dirt off his coat and then raises his eyes to Agron’s. There is a dark line running crosswise his face that Agron deems to be a scar – from what, he could not say – but as impressive as it is against fair skin, the boy’s most defining feature is still the fact that he seems to be missing much of his other leg.

And Agron’s first reaction is to turn from the crippled weakling with a scoff of pity and disdain: such useless creature to yet waste breath on this earth, one who is barely able to keep upright on his own. And Agron cannot help but still stand amazed that these are the people Spartacus insists upon rescuing. For whatever purpose? Agron does not think he can ever begin to answer that question.

So, without further word or deed, he turns to go and continue on his way, when something itching on the back of his hand has him glancing down, and the sight stays his feet. And for a moment he seems unable to do anything, to even move, as if all action had become suspended, even the breath he has drawn.

And then, slowly, he turns around on his heels and wordlessly reaches out his arm for the young man to grip.

“Gratitude,” the boy says quickly once he is back on his feet, or foot, as it were. He hops a little in place, trying to find his balance again. “It was not meaning to stand in the way,” he then continues to explain, still straightening his clothes, “I was merely to have words with Nasir.”

“He is not here,” Agron answers and the awkward silence from before falls again. 

And the boy keeps hopping, and the constant movement is starting to make Agron himself dizzy. His gaze flits from the broken cane on the ground to the boy’s face and then he finally offers his arm again, along with a frustrated sigh.

“You shall hop to your fucking death before Nasir ever is back this night,” he says and rolls his eyes, “Come, let us get you back to your tent.”

But the youth stays where he is, eyeing him suspiciously. “You must have more important use for your time, surely.”

“Yes, I must have,” Agron says curtly and holds out his arm again. And this time, the boy takes him up on the offer and grabs his arm and his shoulder – the good one thank the gods – and they begin to make their awkward way across the quiet campsite. 

“So, you are the one to lead us to the mountains?”

There seems to be nothing more than friendly inquiry in his voice, but Agron is of no mind for idle chatter, least of all concerning this particular subject

“I am no leader,” he answers shortly, hoping his unwillingness to further broach the matter is clear enough in his voice. But the boy only turns to him with another frown upon his face. 

“Yet you are Agron, are you not? Spartacus’ general?”

And the bitter truth leaves Agron’s lips before he has a chance to stop himself. “I was.”

And unpleasant as a thought it is, at least it is finally enough to make the other one understand intent and leave the subject alone. And they cover the remaining distance in blessed silence.

Once they reach the scrap of a tent the young man indicates as his own, Agron is more than happy to leave him be and turns to go, but yet again the youth’s voice halts his step.

“Please, I would offer you a drink for your trouble.”

Agron looks to the boy and to his hands that now hold two cups of wine, and then he looks down to his own; the bloodstain on his right palm has grown double the size since he last laid eyes upon it. He clenches his teeth and briskly shakes his head.

“Better not.”

But as he is about to turn again, the young man speaks once more.

“If I am to cross the mountains with one leg, it should not be too much effort for a man of your stature to enjoy a simple cup of wine.”

And for a moment, Agron’s eyes begin to burn with familiar rage as he bores his most threatening look down on the young man. The little, insolent shit; he should be struck for such disrespect. Does he not know to whom he is speaking? Does he not know who...

But again, the fire burns out quickly within, as if there was a pail of ice-cold water poured over him. What position does Agron hold over the boy now, or over anyone for that matter? One born of nostalgia and memory of fighting days at best, nothing more. And his death stare softens to a menacing glare and he raises his eyebrow slightly as he eyes the boy’s frame more closely again.

“Mountains, you say? And you believe yourself one to accomplish such a fucking feat?”

There is a quick quirk to the boy’s lips, before he defiantly lifts his chin.

“Not only will I reach the mountains, but I shall do so before you ever will.”

And maybe he truly would deserve a slap across the face to teach him some deference before an elder, but Agron’s hands stay idle by his side, and he finds himself nearly smiling at the words. And then, against all his better judgment, he reaches out and takes the offered cup between his palms and does his best to ignore the look of triumph that flashes in the young man’s eyes.

“At least you have spirit under such trying times, let us hope it will serve you well.”

And it is then that the boy’s face suddenly grows serious, every hint of taunting glint in his eyes disappearing in an instant. “The world takes enough by force,” he says, sounding older than his years, “I am not of mind to give it any more by my own hand.”

There is too much truth in his words for Agron to give one more flippant remark, and so they finish their wine in silence.

“Gratitude,” Agron says as he gives back the now empty cup, and when their eyes meet again the stare holds for a moment. And Agron briefly wonders what it is he is thanking for exactly, but then decides that perhaps such thought is better left untouched.

When he reaches his own tent again and crosses the doorway, he forces his eyes to stay away from the piece of steel now lying on the ground and heads straight for the bed instead. He is certain there is no more rest to be had this night, but then he also knows there is not much else to be had either. He pushes the crumpled bedding aside in frustration and sits down heavily on trembling thighs, when he hears something falling to the ground at the action. Wood clinking faintly against wood.

He peers down to his feet to find the cause of the sound and then sets his eyes upon the familiar object. He leans down and hooks his thumb around the string holding the pieces together and brings them up from the ground.

And it is both light and shadow that crosses his face then. The sudden memory of loving touch is enough to chase away the ghosts yet lurking in the darkness, but it also brings forth another troubling thought. For it is not only ghosts to whom a great debt is owed; it is not only ghosts in whose name Agron would raise his sword and fight.

If he were still able.

The two wooden trinkets lie gently on his palm, and he knows he has to try; for Nasir, he  _will_ try. Somehow. Try and be the man he once was. Agron only hopes now that in this, the fates are not asking him too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and the line in the summary from the song ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’ by Elton John.


	9. Forever Is Our Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who waits forever anyway?

“ _You will yet serve purpose in coming battle by seeing those who cannot fight to the mountains. Turn to task and Nasir and prepare for journey.”_

Spartacus’ words still ring in his ears as Agron makes his way across camp with as much haste as his feet allow, bitterness and anger yet aiding his efforts. Visions flash in mind with every step as he pushes past the thickening crowd. He sees it all: the dark nights yet within the ludus, when the whole rebellion still was nothing but whispered promises passed between cell walls; the familiar eyes once brimming with laughter and mischief suddenly turning dull and void of life before him, a beloved friend hanging from a ceiling beam as if nothing but gruesome decoration; Crixus, a victorious grin on his lips, raising his sword to lead their army all the way to the gates of Rome herself…

Caesar’s smirking face. Iron crushing through flesh and bone. And, finally, Spartacus' offered sword slipping from grasp in front of his eyes over and over again.

When Agron finally reaches the confines of their tent, his breathing comes in ragged gasps, but the rage within that up till then has almost taken physical form, sharpening its claws to find a way out from under his skin, is suddenly no more. Yet it is not a soothing calm that it leaves behind, but an emptiness. A shell of a man hollowed out to the core.

He hears Nasir’s footsteps behind him and draws in a deep breath, fighting to stay firm on uneven ground. And he knows he must try, for Nasir's sake if not for his own. He must try. He must.

But how? How is he to live another day with the knowledge that he has left behind, not only his weapons or his days of battle, but this war, this cause, his _brothers_? When he was needed the most.

“We must make final preparations,” he starts, his back still on the other man, “Spartacus would have us part ways soon.” His throat constricts around the words, and he has to swallow to keep the growing tightness at bay.

“Yes,” Nasir answers quietly behind him, “yet I would show you something first.”

There is something odd in the tenor of Nasir’s voice, and it forces Agron’s mind to stop churning – if only for the moment – and his feet turn almost on their own accord.

When he sets eyes upon the other man, he is still standing in the doorway, with something large and heavy in his hands, and Agron’s frown deepens. At first, it seems it is only a common shield Nasir is holding – a thing that would still demand explanation – but upon further inspection it appears to be far more than that, thus making its purpose an even greater mystery. Then, Agron sees the blade protruding from the center, the straps and latches on the inside…

Nasir’s hesitant gaze flickers between the steel and Agron’s face. “I…I made this to be of aide, if…” His voice trails off when Agron draws nearer.

Agron lets his fingertips graze the ragged edge of the shield, yet unable to fully trust his eyes.

“You crafted this?”

And he can only look on in wonder as Nasir then guides his bandaged hand through the leather ties on the inside in demonstration.

“It will lash hand to grip so as not to torn from grasp if called upon to split Roman flesh,” he explains quickly, then turns quiet again and stands back to let Agron take the weight of the shield solely in his own hand.

The heaviness of the weapon is a feeling longed for, such a simple thing yet worth more than all the treasures of the world combined – imagined and real. And perhaps it is only a bandage hastily wrapped around open wound, but he accepts it with deepest gratitude none the same. He does not need to be healed, not anymore; all he asks for is to not yet bleed to death when there still is one more task for him to fulfill on this earth.

A drawn out breath behind him has him nearly jolt on his feet, killing the smile that has barely made it back to his lips. Agron may have the courage of his convictions, convictions he knows to be shared equally between them, but it does not make the words any easier to say.

He turns around slowly, reluctantly, drawing out the inevitable; but there is nowhere to escape, and soon enough he is standing face to face with Nasir again.

“I cannot flee to the mountains with the others.”

Not like this, not when there yet is a chance to stand and fight at his brother’s side where he belongs and where he once vowed never to turn from.

“Despite command my place is upon field of battle,” he continues to explain, and it is no great surprise to find his voice so close to breaking. Yet it does not do so for his own sake. For he knows it is not his own fate he is sealing with his words but Nasir’s, who at any moment now shall…

And as on cue, the man completes Agron’s thought with expected words.

“As mine is forever by your side,” he says resolutely, with no room left for argument.

And this time, there is no objection to come, no plea spilling from Agron’s lips in protest, only one deep shuddered breath that escapes before all air is driven away from chest when Nasir lunges forward and straight into his waiting arms. And the other man’s hold on him is perhaps a little too tight against yet sore skin, however Agron pays no mind to any discomfort, only draws the man closer and presses lips to his hair.

It is a bittersweet relief. To feel Nasir yet warm and alive within his embrace, his heart beating against Agron's own, only to know that it may not stay so for much longer. But Agron also understands they are on equal ground in this. Nasir has stood with the rebellion long enough, longer than anyone else among them yet drawing breath bar Agron and Spartacus himself; there is no doubt he would stand with Spartacus to the end. And Agron would never shame him by doubting his resolve.

So the choice has been made, and it is one that Agron knows shall no longer be brought to question, yet the heavy weight of it – shared as it may be – is still hard to shoulder.

“You give back life and what do I give in return?” he says quietly, mostly to himself, while still blinking away the sting behind his eyes when they finally draw apart. But this has Nasir only shaking his head in refutation and his hand on Agron’s arm grips a tighter hold.

“But an old debt repaid,” the man says with a curl of his lips that Agron would think a smile if it were not for the threat of tears in his eyes. “If I am to be a free man and free to choose my path, then you should be one as well.” He takes in a long breath and then lets out what sounds as a chuckle, though dry as the desert air. “You see, I fear you have only mistaken selfish act for noble deed.”

But Agron’s frown only deepens at the words, for he knows full well there hardly is one selfish bone in the Syrian’s body, least of all in this. And he makes effort to find Nasir’s eyes and seek explanation, but the man yet stubbornly evades his stare.

“I stand by you because I choose to do so, and my path leads where you lead because I would not wish otherwise,” he says and lets his fingers trace the mark on Agron’s forearm where his eyes still linger, “I need you to be of means to choose the same for yourself. I would not have you with me only because you have no place else to be.”

Finally, hazel eyes slowly rise to meet Agron’s own, and he chides himself for the question he now sees in their depth. It is only to Agron’s shame he has assumed the answer self-evident and not spoken up sooner.

“I strayed from your side once, I shall never do so again,” he says and lifts his free hand under Nasir’s chin to hold the face and yet uncertain gaze in his. “I am here, as long as you will have me. In this life and in the next.”

 

* * * * *

 

The weight of his decision and their fate is not a light burden to bear, but as Nasir now looks at Agron’s form making headway through the throng of people before him, shoulders squared and head held up as it should be, he knows there never was any other choice for him to make.

For Nasir knows better than anyone that to die knowing you are alive and in charge of your own destiny is forever preferable to keeping on living as a dead man. It is a lesson Spartacus himself once taught him in a different life, within the cold walls of a certain Roman villa. The marbled prison that was turned into gates of freedom itself by a man of noble cause and another one of green eyes and wounded heart – heart now forever entrusted to Nasir’s care.

And it is his debt to those men, his debt to the Tiberius he once was and to Chadara, his debt to Mira, to Oenomaus, to Donar, to Crixus and to all those they have already lost in this war that Nasir knows shall now finally be paid in full and paid with blood. With blood of Romans and, in the end, his own. And though such knowledge even by itself is almost enough to seize that same blood from running within, it still does not halt the determined step that finally takes him to Agron’s side when the man seeks out Spartacus among the crowd and stops to greet him.

“You are clear of purpose?” their leader asks, and Nasir can see Agron instinctively set his jaw as he braces for delivering the news.

“Never more so,” he says, as close to sounding defiant as he can even with the creased brow now framing his green eyes, “yet Nasir and I shall not be among those striking towards mountains.”

It seems a lifetime since Nasir has heard such determination in Agron’s voice and despite the cause, he can but revel in the sound.

If only their leader were similarly inclined.

“We have broken word over subject, you cannot fight…”

Nasir knows that Spartacus’ words mean well, and the concern in the man’s eyes is clear, yet he would not have Agron suffer more doubt over this. And as much as on most occasions, he would find it difficult to gainsay his leader in this way, for Agron’s sake – no, for _their_ sake – Nasir will not let his voice falter.

“He has yet found a way, forged by loving hands.”

“Do not force my own to lay idle in coming battle,” Agron continues the thought with no pause between them, as if they spoke with one mouth instead of two.

And Nasir knows the wariness in Agron’s frown as Spartacus steps forward, the soldier in him fearful of having disobeyed an order, the man himself fearful of something else. Yet Nasir already sees what Agron does not. He sees it written on Spartacus’ face, hidden in plain sight in the firm grip the man now has on Agron’s arm and shoulder: the pride and love the man holds for his brother and the weight of all of their shared fate that he carries upon his back as an ever-growing burden.

And soon enough the man’s words prove Nasir’s thoughts true, as he gives voice to regret and sorrow over brothers already lost and to the stark knowledge that Agron now is the only one yet standing. Though of course he is, Nasir can but think as he gazes up to the man at his side, if for no other reason than the fact that he is too damn headstrong to fall. And despite knowing better, Nasir still hopes such trait shall continue to prevail in the coming days, any other outcome bears not thinking about.

“You honor me by standing again at my side in final conflict,” Spartacus says in parting. And it takes Agron a moment to gather bearings, and he nods stiffly in reply, looking slightly overcome at the words.

And when he turns to go, he inclines his head signaling for Nasir to follow. But it is a needless gesture, for what else is Nasir going to do? In this life and in the next.

 

* * * * *

 

Castus walks close to Nasir’s heel as the man makes his way toward the group of men still a little further away at the edge of the camp.

“The horses are ready,” Nasir simply says to Spartacus when they finally reach the man, and the leader nods in response and then turns to the other two at his side.

“We better make haste,” he says to Gannicus, who in turn gives a parting nod to the German still left standing, and then follows Spartacus and Nasir back in the direction he and Castus had just arrived from.

And then it is Agron who takes his leave, heading the opposite way towards the few rows of tents yet standing at the campsite. And so, soon enough, Castus finds himself to be the only one left at the windy hillside. He looks in both directions at the retreating backs, then sighs and starts after the German. He keeps his fair distance, though, knowing the man’s company is not the company he would rather seek this night of all nights. And he holds no doubt that in this at least, the two of them are of same mind.

Morning light is not too far away and rest most likely would be of benefit; also, with all preparation now done, there is little for him to do this night but sleep as it is. Yet, he finds himself drawn to the crowd still gathered around the campsite.

He sees the men and women sitting around fires, sharpening their weapons, some trading stories, those fortunate enough clinging on to willing flesh. Whatever food they have left is shared, along with a modest drink and, on occasion, even a laugh or two. On a night such as this, when the winds only carry the promise of death in battle, a cold and empty tent is not an appealing prospect to anyone, and Castus finds himself agreeing with that sentiment.

He spots a fire not far away, with a few stones and tree stumps around as seating. It appears quiet enough for him not to garner any unwanted attention, yet not too distant from the life of the camp, and so he makes his way to it in hopes of ridding himself of the cold that yet clings to his skin.

It is only right as he is about to sit down that he notices the other form already seated to the side, and he freezes in mid-action. And though Castus may not necessarily hold too much concern for the German’s sensibilities, he does hold concern for Nasir and would not wish to add to his burden this night.

“Apologies, I was only looking for a place to warm myself…”

“And now you have found one,” the other man says, tersely enough that it does not sound as an invitation, yet there is still enough sincerity in his voice to leave Castus hovering over the upturned log in somewhat confusion. But Agron says nothing more, only shrugs at Castus’ hesitation and then turns his stare back to the flames.

It is not necessarily Castus’ wish to stay, but still he finds himself sitting down anyway, thinking that at this point he would only bring further attention to himself by not doing so.

Not long after, someone else walks to Agron’s side, another hulking German whose name yet escapes Castus’ mind. He pays not much notice to Castus’ presence, but he and Agron share some seemingly friendly words in mixed tongue.

Then, before the man turns to go, he extends Agron a cup, an offer that is quietly declined. And despite the apparent confusion over the rejection, Agron offers no further excuse, and so with an audible pat on the back in parting gesture the other German finally leaves Castus and Agron alone by the fire again.

Without meaning to, Castus finds his eyes flickering over the bandaged hands resting on Agron’s lap, and when he raises his gaze, he meets the man’s eye and the stare holds for a moment, before Agron looks away. And Castus does not quite know what to feel.

“I…”

“Better not waste words,” the other man says brusquely, kicking up sand with the toe of his shoe.

And so silence falls once more.

Next it is that Crixus’ woman, Naevia, who briefly appears, offering a short nod in Castus’ direction and a word or two towards Agron. But as always, she does not linger and soon enough is already on her feet again. It almost is as though staying in one place for any prolonged moment of time would only bring her pain. Then again, with what little he knows of her story and that of the Gaul’s, Castus would not stand surprised if it truly was so.

The north wind blows harsher this night than the night before, and Castus leans closer to the flames to warm his hands. The smoke stings in his eyes, but he would have that discomfort over the chill setting in his bones. Footsteps sound behind him, and as he glances to his side, he catches a familiar figure walking by him and stopping at Agron’s side. And if the man has found Castus’ presence troublesome in any way, it does not show.

“Here,” Nasir says and holds out a leather chest guard for Agron to see.

“I told you, they were all too small,” the other man starts, but is swiftly interrupted with what sounds like a frustrated groan.

“It has been cut down, so that it only goes over one shoulder and stands open in the back.”

The two continue to bicker over the size of the armor, the German’s nearly open wounds, his need for further protection that the man himself adamantly denies. And Castus lets the voices wash over him, strangely comforted by their familiarity and by the sheer mundanity of the conversation taking place. It is in such stark contrast to the fateful circumstances they find themselves in that his lips almost curl into an absentminded smile, but then he catches himself and sighs instead.

“I would pay heed to Nasir’s words, if I stood in your place.”

It is Spartacus that finally brings end to the light quarrel as all three men by the fire turn to the leader who seems to have appeared at their side as if from thin air.

Something akin to a huff leaves Agron’s lips then and he grudgingly opens his arms in an apparent invitation for Nasir to try the chest guard on. “As you will, I should know by now when I stand outnumbered.”

The words may be spoken in jest, but they seem to reveal a harsher truth that leaves a heavy silence hanging in the air. Nasir quickly busies himself with his task, and Spartacus clears his throat before he speaks again.

“We are ready for tomorrow, I presume?”

“We are,” the German answers. “And Gannicus?”

“He has taken leave. All that awaits is reunion on the battlefield.”

And Agron opens his mouth to speak, but this time Spartacus is quicker with his words.

“And the same is true for all of us. You should seek rest; I will see you again at first light.”

“Spartacus…”

“At first light,” Spartacus says again, his words clear in meaning. He then nods to Nasir, and then to Castus as well, before finally turning and walking away. And in his wake, silence descends around the fire again.

Then Nasir straightens his back, having finished tying Agron’s shoulder strap.

“I told you it would fit.”

The German does not give response only scoffs and subtly shakes his head.

“You should have learned by now not to doubt my word,” Nasir continues as he sits down at Agron’s side.

And Agron scoffs again, almost a hint of a smile on his face this time. But then he happens to glance over at Castus, and their eyes meet, and whatever smile there was, is quickly gone. Agron clears his throat and looks away.

Seeing the German’s reaction, Nasir turns his head, looking almost surprised, as if he had forgotten Castus was there. And then it is their stare that holds for one awkward moment. Finally, Nasir casts his eyes down again and Castus rubs the back of his neck, turning his own gaze to the flames.

The sudden tension in the air is taut like a drawn bow, begging for someone to say something, yet none of them seem to really have any more words to break. In the end, not surprisingly, it is Agron who loses patience first and rises to his feet with a deep sigh that almost buries the groan that leaves his lips as a result of the action.

“Spartacus holds sense, the night grows long,” he says to no one in particular.

As is to be expected, Nasir makes to follow him, yet Agron’s hand on his shoulder halts him, and he sits back down with a slight frown furrowed between brows. The two do not exchange words, yet a brush of fingertips over bare skin and a shared look that Castus only catches a glimpse of seem to be enough to smooth the worry line and stay Nasir’s feet. Agron gives a curt nod to Castus in parting and then quickly takes his leave.

The two men still by the fire are left watching the German’s back in silence, yet it is one less awkward now and growing more comfortable with every drawn breath. _And with every step that takes Agron further away,_ Castus muses, yet he understands there is little triumph to be had in such knowledge any longer.

“I do not know whether to think him brave or a fool. Raised from the dead only to tempt the gods again the moment his legs carry him.”

“Perhaps you would stand less surprised if you knew the man, he is nothing if not stubborn.”

And as much as Castus would give almost anything to be the cause of the smile that now briefly adorns Nasir’s face, he is surprised to find himself glad nonetheless. Glad that at least the smile is there lighting the Syrian's eyes yet again and replacing the hollowness of days past.

“Yet…” Nasir continues and turns his attention back to Castus with a sigh. “You also stand a free man, have stood as one for some time now, free to go if you so please and yet you stay. So, what does that make _you_ , a brave man or a fool?”

Castus peels his eyes away from Nasir’s face and turns to the flames once more. It is a question he has not ceased asking himself.

“I once told you I used to sail only where the winds took me, and was but happy to find whatever I found once I got there.” _Especially if such a thing was you._

Though this time, he refrains from saying the rest out loud. Flattering words may have once more than easily left his tongue in hopes of parting lips and thighs, yet now they somehow only sound hollow in his ears, not worth the breath it takes to say them.

“I have since learned that perhaps there is value in finding purpose in life, after all,” he continues, “and not only at the bottom of a cup,” he hastens to add with a pensive frown. “That it is worthwhile to truly hold conviction over something greater than yourself.”

“A good lesson to take, I hope?”

And then Castus cannot help the smile that tugs his lips. He will not take much, but he will let himself have this.

“I had the fortune of a good teacher.”

They share the smile in amicable silence, but too soon the moment is over, and then Nasir is already on his feet. Yet before fully walking away, he stops at Castus’ side. His hand feels warm against a bare shoulder.

“I only hope days yet to come find you well…my friend,” he says, his tone quiet and almost somber. Sincere.

It is clear this may very well be the last time they will ever share words again, and such knowledge is hard to bear for all its implications.

“And I but wish the same for you,” Castus finally says in return once he finds his voice; and he has to commend himself for keeping it as steady as it is.

Nasir then turns from him with a last sweep of his fingers, and soon Castus is left watching his retreating back as the man makes quick progression between the sparse rows of tents. Firelight catches a lock of dark hair, casts shadows upon curves of muscles, upon bronzed skin, and Castus sighs. Out of longing, out of desire, or something more…he cannot say.

Or maybe he can, it is only that he has trouble thinking such sentiment true.

Soon, he sees Nasir reaching the German's side, sees the bigger man spin around seemingly surprised by the arm wrapping around his waist, and it is at that point that Castus finally makes to avert his eyes. There is some amount of fervor in the embrace the pair now shares, and such images are not the kind he feels the need to harbor this night.

And it would be easy, perhaps tempting even, to keep wallowing in heartache and bitter thoughts, but that has never been his nature, and as much as has changed in that regard, his refusal to hang on to regret is not a trait he would lose. Especially now, when he is most likely set to lose everything else.

Animated voices keep sounding all around him, and he straightens his back and rises to his feet with a deep sigh. Perhaps there is a cup yet to be shared somewhere in this camp before sleep is to claim him.

But before he even has a chance to take one step, someone stumbles against his back, and he can feel something cold and wet spilling on his skin. He turns around, hoping his annoyance is clear enough on his face, but the harshness in his eyes slowly melts away when he casts a look upon the source of his irritation.

“Apologies.” The young man tries on a hesitant smile, and for a moment his eyes shine even brighter than the golden glow of the fire reflecting from them.

And Castus glances one last time in Nasir’s direction, but the man has already disappeared from sight, and all there is to see is the front of his tent now standing empty under flickering torchlight. Castus fights a sigh and then turns his attention back to the man still shuffling his feet in front of him. And he smiles.

“No offense taken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and the line in the summary from the song ‘Who Wants To Live Forever’ by Queen.


	10. Dream On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sing with me, if it's just for today. Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away.

They stumble over the tent threshold in an inelegant tangle of limbs and lips, as if all of a sudden afraid to let go of the other for even a heartbeat, afraid to be parted for even a hair's width now when dawn stands a mere blink of an eye away and they still have each other within reach.

Discarded pieces of leather and cloth fall to the ground in their wake as they close the short distance between the doorway and their makeshift bed. Blankets and furs and other such comforts have been given away to those with more use for them in days yet to come, but a bundle of abandoned scraps of clothing yet remains in the corner and they fall upon it, Agron first and Nasir not far behind, quickly finding his place, nestled between Agron's thighs.

And this time, Nasir does not question Agron's wounds, his body, or remaining strength. He would not wish to cause the man further injury, but there is desperation now thrumming within both their veins that guides hands and mouth. There is no  _later_ anymore, only a need even beyond flesh or hardening cock that demands to be sated before time itself is forever ripped away from grasp.

And so Agron’s mouth finds Nasir’s skin again: the jaw, the neck, the collarbone, wherever he can reach. Bare thigh rubs against bare thigh, while he winds his arms around the smaller man’s trim frame and slides his hands down where the spine curves and hard lines of muscles give way to rounder form. But when he reaches the edge of the last cloth tied around Nasir’s waist and his stiff fingers fumble and lose their grip, the sharp blade of reality inevitably punctures wound into lusty haze.

“Fucking hands,” he spits out, and then quickly bites the side of his mouth bloody in an effort to keep further childish whines from leaving his lips. Yet it is so hard to deny himself the inclination. He has resolved to do what he can to accept this newfound lot in what little life he has left, but do the fucking gods still need to remind him of it in every turn?

But Nasir offers him little chance to dwell in these thoughts and sits up, settling his legs firmly across Agron's lap and taking hold of his wrists with determined hand. And when Agron attempts to evade his scalding stare, he grabs the man's chin and forces their eyes to meet.

Had they more time, were their moments left on earth counted in seasons and not in mere heartbeats, then Nasir would spend each and every one of them reminding Agron of his worth, not as a weapon but as a man, keep reminding him until he would listen. But that is not to be, and alas, Nasir can only do what he can in the time given to him.

“It is not your hands I need,” he says, fear and want and anger all present in his voice and behind his eyes, as his thumb nearly burrows into Agron’s jaw, “or your sword or shield.” A shuddered breath escapes his lips, before they quirk up to a wry smile. “Or even your cock,” he adds, “but _you_.”

Agron blinks up at him and what he now sees in those dark eyes is both comforting and unsettling in equal measure. Is it any wonder he had doubted it to be true before, for how can a simple man like him ever be worth of such devotion?

A gust of wind outside rustles the cover of the tent, and the sole flame lighting the space flickers, making shadows dance around them.

Nasir's hands let go of Agron's chin and the thick leather bound around his wrist and travel up along his arms, shoulders, down his chest and up again, over scarred and healing skin. Muscles stir and quiver under his touch when he fans his fingers wide over heated flesh, enjoying the feel and savoring the knowledge that the other man is still here. Perhaps yet broken and in pieces, perhaps never to be put together again. But  _here_ .

Finally, he places palms flat upon ground on either side of Agron's head and leans down, trailing kisses all the way from collarbone to temple.

“You,” he whispers in Agron's skin, chanting the word until their mouths find one another again, tongues seeking shelter within, teeth staking claim. They kiss as if they had forever, parting only when lungs are screaming and vision nearly goes black before them.

And so they pause for breath, forehead resting against forehead, noses nearly squashed together, both gasping for air as if fishes out of water. And then Nasir closes his eyes and lets out a breathless huff of air that almost sounds like a chuckle.

“Though I _would_ have your cock as well.”

When their eyes meet again, the stare holds, and Agron lifts his useless hands, skims fingertips along the curves and grooves of Nasir's back, along his sides. And he smiles despite of himself.

“Then see it done.”

It takes adjusting, but such is not news, and this time they take it all in their stride. Even Agron. What else is there left for him to do? The oil Nasir pours on his hands will cost them most of their lamplight, and it drips from between his fingers in cold, heavy droplets along Agron’s stomach, his thighs. And ever the practical man, Agron is about to comment on wasting what precious little of it they have, but all words are quickly lost to him when he watches the man above him suddenly arch his body and throw back his head, biting his lip in a failed effort to stifle a moan.

And Agron is left watching, and his cock twitches against his stomach, perhaps harder than his fingers ever will.

“Fuck. Me.” 

Nasir opens one eye and peers down at Agron upon the exclamation, feeling an all too familiar smile pulling his lips then.

“Fuck you or fuck me? You should know your mind by now.”

He smirks even wider at the look he receives, then hisses briefly as he stretches himself a little more and only stops once he begins to fear Agron has lost the ability to breathe, knowing he is not far from such a fate himself.

And he understands he should not be smiling like this; perhaps he should not be smiling at all. Perhaps he should be gritting his teeth, crying out at the world, shouting curses at the fates and Roman shits, and sharpening the edges of his spearhead until it would cut through stone.

And yet he smiles.

And he is still smiling when, finally, on his knees and his legs astride Agron’s lap, he carefully guides himself down to waiting flesh.

And whatever else may have changed between them – for better or worse, but mostly for better – this at least is like it has always been, almost too much and yet never enough. And he revels in the pain, in the intrusion that is never forced but welcomed and missed, longed for in more ways than one. He revels in the way the body beneath his own tenses at the contact, revels in the ripples that run across marred skin from naval to neck.

Agron, in turn, still watches Nasir in a sort of awe – as difficult as it is to concentrate on anything else than the feel of the man and the heat and tightness of his flesh around his own. But how can he not look at the sight before him: dark eyes aflame, hair cascading down to shoulders wild and free, his body taut and firm, as alive as Agron has ever seen the man to be. Without thinking, he reaches out, and then for a moment it seems as if even time stands still, as he reverently traces the line of a nose, runs his fingertips along the jawline, down the throat and further down, tracing the shape of muscles and sharp hipbones, then makes his way up open thighs, until he finds the nest of dark hair between them. And he follows the familiar curve of a cock with a tender stroke of fingers, brushes his thumb gently against the head and hears Nasir let out a soft gasp of air, before the man finally grabs Agron's hand in his and lifts it away to press a kiss against the bandaged palm.

Agron returns his smile, and their stare holds as Nasir slowly lowers their joined hands and gently twines their fingers upon the crumpled sheet below.

The slowly dying lamplight catches every curve of muscle and jut of bone when Nasir finally begins to move. It starts with a slow roll of hips, only undulating flesh that barely lifts from Agron’s own. And if Agron had any strength in his fingers to speak of, they would now grip Nasir’s until his bruised knuckles turned white, as his weary body slowly starts to feel on fire from head to toe.

And Nasir, too, would so easily get lost in this feeling that he knows to be like no other, in the pleasure that almost rips him in half from the inside, get lost in the green eyes that grow darker in shade with every drawn breath. He leans down, meeting lips on the way, and buries his face in the crook of Agron’s neck. And no later, he feels arms around him again, crushing him against bruised chest.

And then it is Agron who begins to move, so deep and so right with every thrust, while Nasir stifles his whimpered cries in the man’s shoulder. It is nearly too much all at once: the burning within, the friction between them when Agron draws him closer still. And Nasir briefly wonders if it were possible to simply burrow here inside Agron’s skin, like Agron now is burrowed within him. Body and soul. If it were to continue like this for much longer, Nasir thinks he may just be forced to do so soon.

But there is only so much Agron is able to do on his own, only so long he is able to keep going with tired legs, with hands unable to guide or grip. And once it becomes too much for him, both men still for a moment, gasping for needed breath. And then searching lips find each other in one last searing kiss, before Nasir pulls away and rises to his knees again.

He is so close now, yet he barely cares; he can hardly even feel himself anymore, he can only feel Agron. The border between their bodies becomes a line so fine it ceases to exist, and Nasir would be hard-pressed to tell where he ends and the other man begins.

His legs may shake, but he is still moving, raising himself almost all the way from Agron’s reach but never quite. And he knows if it were up to him alone, he would never be from Agron’s reach again. Then the other man places hands upon his hip, perhaps not quite grasping but  _there,_ and Nasir is no longer close to the edge, but over it. And he comes apart, sinking down on trembling thighs. 

A strangled cry echoes in the night, and it is only after he feels the burning in his throat that Nasir realizes the sound must have escaped his own lips.

And Agron, confined in this sweet prison Nasir has built for him, can do nothing more than watch as the other man unravels before him. Then again, he would watch forever. If the fates allowed, he would never leave this moment, this place. And when Nasir once more leans down to taste his lips, Agron feels as if he is disappearing: disappearing into Nasir’s mouth, into his skin, sinking into his flesh and melting into his bones, until there is no more of him left to lose.

And when they slowly begin to move again, they move as one: all lips and tongue, slick skin against slick skin, fingers upon flesh hardening anew. And as one, they reach the heavens one last time and split them in two. And the gods, those capricious fucks, for once only smile in return.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Agron lets his thumb run up Nasir’s spine, and once he reaches the nape of his neck, does his best to brush the hair curling there away to one side. He then leans down as gently as he can with unsure muscles to press a kiss between the shoulder blades.

“Have you had rest at all?” The other man’s voice sounds slightly muffled against Agron's arm.

“Enough,” Agron answers, finding himself smiling unexpectedly. Nasir’s skin feels warm beneath his lips. “And you?”

“Enough.”

“Good.” He hums and spares another kiss. “I would not have you tired and stumbling at my side this day, I shall have enough trouble with my own unsteady feet.”

It is those words that finally make Nasir turn around in his embrace, and the man then lifts himself up enough to look at Agron’s face. The light is sparse, yet Agron can see there is nothing but confusion in his gaze.

“You find this to be a time to jest?”

Agron huffs in the dark, fingertips tracing the line of the other man’s arm. “They have taken enough, Nasir. I would not let them have my fucking words as well.”

The other man stills for a heartbeat and then sighs but does not offer further words of chastisement, only rests his head back down on Agron's chest.

“We must move soon.”

“We must.”

Agron's fingertips absently map familiar skin, and a sudden realization sneaks its way into his thoughts then. And he cannot help the wry huff of a laugh that escapes his lips as he thinks of the bittersweet irony before he is able to control himself and his reaction.

“What?”

“If I said, you would only think me mad.”

“You forget I already do. So tell me.”

Agron is grateful for the darkness around them for he is certain sunlight would scare away the words now upon tongue. Then again, perhaps it should, as they are nothing to be proud of.

“I only found myself with the thought of how I always shall be in Rome's debt.”

As expected, Nasir now huffs in much the same way as Agron did before. “So you truly  _have_ lost mind.”

“I hate every fucking grain of sand upon this land that is not in doubt,” Agron begins to explain, measuring his words, “Were it not for the Romans, I would still have my brother, you would still have your home and family and would never have had to face this fucking war. And yet...” 

Agron's voice trails off and he cannot help but cringe to himself, disgusted at the sheer selfishness of the thought.

“...How can I _not_ feel grateful to those shits.”

“And what of fucking worth have they ever given you?”

Agron takes a deep breath before finally answering.

“You.”

Silence falls between them, filled with only the sound of their breathing and the faintly rustling wind outside.

“And you would still be willing to make that trade?” Nasir asks quietly, “Even after all you know now?”

Agron says nothing in reply and awkwardly shifts on the ground and rolls to his side so that the two of them lie face to face. He lifts his hand to settle at the juncture of Nasir’s throat, letting his thumb idly brush against the skin there. And every further moment they spend in silence only helps to feed his shame.

“You must think me cruel,” he says, then shakes his head and casts his eyes down to Nasir's neck where his hand still rests. “To wish you years upon years of suffering in exchange for nothing more than a few brief moments of–”

The kiss that cuts him off nearly lands him back on his back in surprise, and the lips that meet his own taste of newfound desperation – even deeper than the one they both shared earlier that night.

“For us to find light amidst darkness even for a moment in this world is hardly a sin but a blessing, is it not?” Nasir asks, sounding ever so slightly out of breath, once they finally part.

“Yes, but...”

“Then take it as such and know that I will do the same.”

Agron nods against Nasir's cheek, but his hand still lingers around the man's neck until Nasir takes it in his and peels the fingers away.

“Cruelty was suffered in Roman hands, not yours.”

“Worthless fucks–”

“And today they will pay,” Nasir continues, lacing their fingers, “for all wounds inflicted.”

Something stings behind Agron’s eyes, perhaps the same thing now burning in his throat, and he tries to search for the right words but finds them lacking. And so he is left watching in silence as the other man finally sits up and turns away to gather his clothes from the ground.

There are no words left to say.

Nasir then finds his feet with a heavy sigh and Agron lets him dress in peace, watching him for another moment before his gaze slips to the pile of cloth and leather and brass yet untouched by Syrian hand. And as subtle as he thinks his groan is, the other man seems to hear it all the same and stops to look at him with questioning eyes.

“Should never have removed the fucking things in the first place,” Agron cannot help but grumble through gritted teeth. And though he knows he is sounding nothing more than a petulant child once more, it is still hard to quell the frustration burning within whenever faced with his own helplessness, no matter how mundane the task may be.

Nasir finishes tightening his own belt, and then steps closer, reaching for the subligaria from the floor. “I wish you had made these feelings clear earlier, then I would never have forced you to suffer such a fate.”

Surprised at what he thinks he is hearing in Nasir’s tone, Agron looks up, and sure enough, he does find a glimmer of mirth in Nasir’s gaze.

“You find this to be a time to jest?” 

“I but follow your lead, do I not, in all things,” Nasir replies with a quick smile and then gestures at Agron with the piece of clothing in his hand. “Now, gain feet and let me do my best to correct grave mistake.”

And Agron is not certain whether to laugh or cry. He fears he might be near to doing both.

Once properly dressed and weapons in hand, they make their way out of the tent, both deciding to ignore the knowledge that this will be the last time they will set eyes upon it again.

“We should find Spartacus,” Nasir says, and Agron nods and then briefly takes him by the shoulder and makes to walk past. But it is the sight of his bandaged hand on Nasir’s skin that suddenly forces a grim vision to flash in mind and he halts his step.

“I need you to make promise.” And he watches Nasir frown and then look up at him with wary eyes. 

“Yes?”

“Whatever else happens in this fight, to any of us, promise me you will not let them take you away. Do not–”

“Agron, the gods may–”

“I do not speak of gods.”

And Nasir’s frown grows deeper still.

“I speak of Romans.”

Agron does not have the words, so he implores the other man with his eyes, implores him to understand intent. It takes a heartbeat more until, at last, the crease between the other man’s brows disappears. He lifts his hand to Agron’s neck, and then reaches up to meet his lips. A raw touch, more teeth than flesh.

“If I am to fall from this world, I will do so with spear in hand.” 

And there is enough fear buried in his eyes that Agron is assured the words are sincere. It is not enough by far, but it will have to do.

He glances over to the sky behind Nasir’s back and sees the gray light of dawn creeping up behind the hills dragging morning in its wake – and along with it, the promise of battle. Agron can taste it on his tongue. He can feel it under his skin, heating his blood.

“We better move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and the line in the summary from the song ‘Dream On’ by Aerosmith.


	11. If I Asked You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will you lay down your armour, and be with me forever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all you lovely people for reading and commenting. And now here we are, finally, at the last crossroads...

They lift the limp body onto the horse as carefully as they can, but it is not an easy task when the man is out of mind and heavy and slick with blood. And they do not have the time to be gentle or caring, tying hands and feet to saddle with haste lest they all stand the same.

Once the body is secured, Nasir mounts his horse and tries to find a way to best fit himself in the saddle as Ewen – the lightest of the other three – takes his place behind him. Under Spartacus’ sprawled frame, the sandy coat of the colt is getting slowly colored in crimson, and Nasir looks away, holding the reins a little tighter in his hand.

He can still hear the roar of battle behind him when he lifts his eyes to Agron’s. He does not have to say the words, because Agron hears him all the same. And the man nods his answer.

_North._

And one last time, Nasir turns to see the view below and spares a thought to those they leave behind, before he digs his heels in the horse’s flanks, urging it to move. It is a difficult feat; the draw of the battle is too strong, the guilt over abandoning their fellow rebels to certain death too great a burden to bear. Nasir can feel it with every fiber of his being just as he can see it in every hard line etched upon Agron’s face.

But with Spartacus still drawing breath, their duty yet lies with him. And so they move, never stopping, never looking back.

The horses and the men do their best to speed along mountain ledges and narrow paths in a race with the sun, hooves hitting the ground as thunder, sending rocks and sand flying in the air. Agron leads the way with the horse carrying their leader leashed to his own. Nasir and Ewen follow right behind them, leaving Widald to keep the rear.

And it is dread that drives them still, not hope. There is too much to keep behind them to yet think about what there is to find ahead. Will it be Crassus who will stop them or perhaps Pompey cutting off their path? Will the extra weight or unstable burden slow them down too soon? Will the horses keep the pace? And Spartacus…

When Nasir last held the man’s frame, his skin yet felt warm to the touch, but Nasir knows there are no guarantees for how long it will stay so. There are no such guarantees for any of them.

The sun has already finished its own travel across the sky, when their path takes a hard turn and then starts going steeply uphill, slowing their pace down to a walk. And first Nasir digs his heels a little deeper to spur the horse onward over rock and stone, but finally, he decides to allow their steed some rest and takes to his own feet instead.

“Fuck the gods.”

Nasir has barely had time to hand over the reins and take his first step when he hears Agron’s exclamation and looks up. The man has stopped at the top of the hill and is now looking somewhere in the distance, his tall frame casting an imposing silhouette against the darkening sky.

“Is it Romans again?” Nasir hears Ewen ask, with his hand already reaching for the hilt of his sword, although it is clear that Nasir, too, is yet too far to see. 

But then Nasir does not have to see, he knows the tones of Agron’s voice like the back of his hand.

“No.”

It is not Romans.

And when he at last comes to stand next to Agron, he can finally see it for himself. The ever growing mountains slicing the sky, continuing all the way into the horizon as far as Nasir’s eyes can reach. And it is a majestic sight, yet it is not that sight alone that has Agron cursing the gods again and Nasir catching his breath.

Because there, not too far in the distance, at the foot of the hill where the path widens and leads to the mountain pass below, their eyes find familiar forms. They see people huddled together, sitting, standing – dozens of them if not hundreds. There are so many of them, in fact, that some already disappear from sight as the crowd spills onto the path that takes down to the gorge between the hills and further towards the growing mountain range. The path north. The path to freedom promised by Spartacus himself.

“Agron…”

And the other man turns to look at him, eyes heavy with exhaustion and pain but now tinged with relief. And then for a brief moment, like a ray of sun cutting the sky, he smiles. It is faint and barely there and gone almost before Nasir has time to take note. Yet it is there. And along with it, hope.

For what is still to be seen.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Agron lowers himself on one knee beside his brother’s resting form. And he does his best to keep the tempest within at bay; there is too much yet to overcome to allow himself to wallow in pain or regret. Still, the bitterness over loss and failure that lurks under his skin is difficult to ignore. They have lost all their brothers and sisters in arms; they have lost the war. They have failed in stopping Crassus or Caesar, and Rome yet stands absent fatal wound. Unlike Spartacus. And after Spartacus is gone, what is left?

All the blood spilled and precious lives lost, the seasons upon seasons of struggle and strife, what were they for? If all they have gained is what little now stands left on this mountainside.

He hangs his head down and places a trembling hand over Spartacus’ shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin under his calloused fingertips. The man yet draws breath, and Agron has to take that as the blessing that it is. It may be the only one they shall hold.

“Here...”

He turns his head to the side and sees Laeta standing by him, a water skin in her outstretched hand. And he tries to wave her away, but the woman stubbornly stays still.

“You have yet to take drink,” she says quietly, eyes slipping from Agron’s face to Spartacus and then back again. She pushes the leather flask further in Agron’s reach. “Please.”

And with a barely contained sigh, Agron clumsily takes the offered drink between his hands and raises it to his lips. The water is lukewarm and leaves behind a faint taste of piss and sweat, yet Agron is sure no wine has ever tasted sweeter upon his tongue. And he drinks a whole mouthful before offering the flask back again, but this time it is Laeta’s turn to wave his hands away.

“Gratitude.”

She nods and walks away without further word. And Agron’s gaze slowly returns to the man lying next to him – and his mind to darker thoughts.

It is some time later when Agron next looks up from Spartacus’ bloodied frame, only to find that the sky above him has already begun to lighten. Idly, his eyes sweep the view before him, and he watches the men loading the last of the carts yet to take to travel. And it is then that Agron catches a familiar figure at the horse’s side. The boy hobbles along the cart’s wooden frame and then jumps up to sit at the edge of it. The morning light may yet be dull and grey, but the scar across his skin is visible even from this distance.

And Agron feels a sudden wave of relief wash over him as recognition hits; odd as it is, since he barely held one conversation with the boy and does not even know his name. And as Agron is left watching him and the wagon slowly disappearing from sight behind the bend, he gradually starts to take newfound note of the other people yet sitting and standing around him, waiting for the final news on Spartacus before taking their leave as well.

He sees fighters much like him, cut and wounded, tired but yet standing. He sees old men and women, years of hardship engraved into the lines on their faces; a young woman cradling her baby on her breast; a group of children bickering over a bundle of rags to carry, before someone comes over to slap them by the ear for the slight racket they are making. All of them, women, men and children alike, once nearly crushed under the heel of their enemy.

And now, no longer.

And it is a different twinge in his chest Agron feels then, and he looks back down to the body still sprawled on the ground before him.

_Every man has his worth, Agron._

How many times has he heard those words from Spartacus and how many times has he scoffed at them, scoffed at the man’s patience for weakness? Could Agron truly finally be willing to listen? For his own sake if no one else’s?

And he wonders what Spartacus would tell him now if offered opportunity, what he would ask of him, what advice he would give. Would he tell them to turn back and find their ends upon Roman sand, at their brothers’ side as they were meant to? To honor the lives already lost with their own?

For as long as he can remember, Agron has been certain that the only way to fight for this cause – as for any other – was with sword and sword alone. And although such inclination is yet hardly removed from thought, he also is more than certain that Spartacus would be of a different mind.

The man had stood fast that the freedom already won for these people was enough. Would be enough. Should be. Yet, what else is there left for Agron to do but to fight? Now or ever.

“Any sign?”

The touch upon his shoulder may be sudden, yet it is so familiar it does not even warrant him to look up. He merely shakes his head in answer, eyes still on Spartacus.

“We will wait then,” Nasir says and pats his shoulder again when Agron finally lifts his head to look at him. 

The other man walks away, and Agron watches after him as he crouches nearby to help bundle up the rest of the supplies yet scattered upon the ground. He keeps the familiar dirt and blood splattered form in his sight for a moment longer, then makes to turn his attention back to Spartacus, when something unknown has him halt the action.

They have been running for what seems forever now, not daring to stop to even draw in breath lest enemy sword were to claim them. And even now when no longer upon horse’s back, Agron still feels as if he is running, with all that has taken place since last sunrise yet to catch up with him. Or perhaps he has been running for far longer than that. Perhaps ever since that fateful day he followed Spartacus out of the gates of Batiatus’ ludus with yet unsteady step, his brother’s blood staining his hands.

He was running towards Rome then.

And now...

The Syrian kneels upon ground, too consumed with task to notice Agron’s gaze upon him. And Agron can only wonder how it has taken him this long to see. He knows he has lost his hands to this fucking war, but surely not his eyes as well?

And he has been running so long that now, when finally forced to stop, it feels as if his tired body all but gives out from under him. The realization hits him like a slap across the face, and a sudden exhausted whimper escapes his lips without permission, a strangled sound that he is barely able to cover with a cough.

He can hardly believe what he sees, yet there it is: Nasir still whole and alive and drawing breath. And Agron does not know what that is to mean exactly, on this day or on the ones to follow, does not know what it is to mean to him or to the Syrian himself.

But he does know one thing: nothing else will ever mean more.

Suddenly Nasir catches his stare and quickly there is a frown forming on his forehead, a questioning look that Agron answers with a subtle shake of his head. Nasir’s eyes lingers in his, but eventually he looks away and turns back to task at hand; and then, finally, Agron does the same.

He shifts on his feet, resting his weight on another knee and then quickly touches Spartacus’ chest to make sure that at least his heart yet beats. And it is then that the man’s eyes suddenly fly open, and it is nearly enough to startle Agron and make him lose his balance, before he is able to rein in the reaction.

He takes hold of the man’s shoulder and leans over him slightly to make certain what he is seeing is not only a figment of his own exhausted mind. The other man blinks once, and then twice, before his eyes focus on Agron’s face. And this time, the relief filling Agron’s chest gives little cause to surprise.

He presses Spartacus’ shoulder gently in acknowledgement and then sits back up on his heels to address the crowd around them. On a day such as this, good news is not easy to come by, and so Agron can be thankful to at least be the bearer of some.

“He yet lives!”

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


The rain begins to ease as they lower Spartacus into his grave. There are no words shared between those standing guard at the burial, only Sibyl’s whispered prays to the gods as she keeps watch over the children covering the mound with pebbles and rocks.

Slowly, the crowd begins to disperse to gather their remaining possessions and start their belated way towards the mountain path. Agron glances over the thinning crowd and then peers up at the sky. The clouds are still hanging low, but the rain has finally come to its end, only leaving behind the smell of wet earth clinging to the air.

He shifts his stance and absentmindedly runs his free fingers over the straps of the shield now once again lashed to his hand. The weapon feels heavy and cumbersome in his hold, chafing his skin, and he casts his eyes upon it, frowning in contemplation.

At his side, he can see Nasir do much the same, with Spartacus’ sword balanced in hand.

“You would mark the grave?”

Nasir nods, never taking his gaze off the weapon, only flipping it in his hand and scowling further. His hazel eyes still glisten, even in the grey light that barely makes it across the overcast sky.

“He should have more than a pile of rocks and rubble left behind in commemoration.”

“Yes,” Agron replies, and then lowers his gaze back to the shield in his hand. He frowns once again and then slowly lets out the breath he has been holding, before turning to properly face the man by his side. He holds out his arm and waits until the confused expression on Nasir’s face finally changes into one of understanding. And no later back into a frown again.

“Your shield...”

He never finishes the thought but he does not need to, for Agron understands his meaning. After all, in their world of constant peril and threat of violence, there is no greater crime than to leave your weapons behind – it is a basic principle of honor they have all learned to live by.

And he can almost hear the words spoken in his father’s voice then. Hear them repeated over and over again by kin and kind, by familiar tongues, not least of all his own. And he sighs. For his people, to leave behind your shield and sword and willingly run away from battle, it is the one crime known to always carry the punishment of death – without question or exception. And now...

“The battle is over,” he says simply. 

Even if the war may never be.

Nasir looks up at him and meets his gaze. The dark of his eyes seems even darker this day, the subtle lines on his face deeper than before. The stare holds for a moment and then Nasir nods shortly, before wordlessly divesting him of the weapon still half-covered in Roman mud and shit and placing it firmly upon the burial mound.

No further words are needed between them. As has become the custom these days, they seem to be able to cover a multitude of things with only one look. And Agron knows it to be an immeasurable comfort at a time when the right words are not to be found, if such exist at all.

At the head of the grave, Laeta also gets to her feet, cleaning the remnants of blood from her hands in the skirt of her dress. She inclines her head towards them both and picks up her bundle from the ground and starts after Sibyl who is already making her way towards the downward path.

“We better...” Agron’s strained voice fades away too soon, but nonetheless, Nasir nods again in response and gives way for Agron to walk past, before following at his heel.

And then, at the bend where the path takes the final turn down to the pass below, Agron stops and turns to look back one last time. Yet it is not Spartacus he sees but the whole of the cursed land they are leaving behind, the land he not too long ago still thought had claimed too much to ever turn from. And he thinks of all the costly blood spilled on its sands, and the thought stays his feet for a moment more, until he feels the clasp of Nasir’s hand on his shoulder goading him to move.

Agron lets his eyes fall upon Spartacus’ grave and then gives a nod of his head in final parting before finally turning his feet towards the mountains. Wherever his brother – his friend, his leader – may be now, Agron can but hope that he has finally found the peace he stood absent of for too long. And as Agron falls into step with Nasir down the hillside path, he knows he is hoping the same is true for all those gone before them. And maybe, one day, it shall be true for them as well, in this life or the next.

The sun escapes from its hold behind the clouds, casting its light upon the slowly moving line of people travelling further and further along the winding mountain trail. An errant ray catches Agron’s eye, making him squint, and he instinctively rubs the back of his hand over his face, but the action only results in further blood and dirt getting in his eyes. He blinks and huffs in frustration and blinks again, until Nasir’s touch on his arm has him look over and then stays his feet.

The other man does not say a word, only reaches out a spit-slick hand and unceremoniously clears the rest of the grime off of Agron’s face. The task does not take him long, yet when he is done, his thumb still lingers a heartbeat over Agron’s cheek, along with his stare. He gives out a small breath and then the hand drops back to his side and he turns to go again, idly wiping his hand on the leg of his breeches as he walks away.

Before them, the mountains grow as high as the sky spans wide, and the winds carry with them the promise of northern chill. The scent of pine. The smell of hearty soil freshly freed from winter snow.

And the road ahead is long, long enough to grind the soles of their shoes to dust and bring blisters to their feet, and Agron should move. Yet for one moment longer, he is left where he stands, still watching Nasir’s retreating back. And he finds himself blinking again, though this time it is hard to lay the blame on purely dirt and sweat stinging behind his eyes. He sees Nasir’s step falter, and then the man stops completely and looks back over his shoulder.

And even before their eyes meet across the gravel path, Agron somehow knows that the weight of the world upon his shoulders has already become a fraction lighter to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and the line in the summary from the song ‘Two Men In Love’ by The Irrepressibles.


End file.
